


The Road Not Taken

by orphan_account



Category: Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: 1980s gay porn, AU, Anal Sex, Angst, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Elio is a drop out, HIV/AIDS, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Light BDSM, M/M, NSFW Art, Oliver is married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-08-24 04:59:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 59,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16633403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's 1985, two years after Oliver's Italian summer. He's married by now but as hard as he tries, he can't forget Elio. Nor can he suppress his true nature.That's why, when his wife is out of town, Oliver rents a gay porn video tape to take the edge off. But he's in for the shock of his life because he recognizes one of the actors...The title is taken from a poem by Robert Frost.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time trying to write Elio and Oliver. I hope it works.  
> I don't want to give too much away but there are descriptions of scenes in this that might be considered as rape, though they are taking place in the context of porn movies, so who knows what's real. But I still want to warn you.
> 
> I'm really not sure this is ready for posting but I feel if I don't start now I will never do it.

Oliver’s face still feels hot when he closes his apartment door. He’s sure everyone had been staring at him: from the man at the adult video store to his fellow travelers on the subway to his neighbors he met in the lift.

The tape is burning a hole in his briefcase.

Just imagining dropping it, the lid bursting open to reveal its obscene content, has him break out in a cold sweat and cringe with embarrassment.

What had he done? This isn’t him.

Well, apparently, it is.

His wife had to go out of town for a few days to attend a conference in Chicago. It’s their first longer separation since their marriage in spring last year.

Oliver has to admit he had been looking forward to it. He likes being alone, having not to consider other people’s feelings, tastes or schedules.

So yesterday he’d ordered a giant pepperoni pizza with extra cheese (Claire is allergic to dairy), cracked open a beer (Claire prefers white wine) and watched a basketball game on TV (Claire would have rolled her eyes) just clad in his sweat pants and a hoodie (Claire likes him turn out smart in a suit. _‘You’re a professor, Oliver. Dress like one.’_ ).

All that sweaty, male skin and strong muscle on screen, combined with alcohol and loose fitting clothes, had him getting hard after a while. And as he’d been alone he’d allowed it.

Usually, he’s only able to have a quick wank in the shower, closing his eyes and imagining… things. But now he took his time, touching himself the way he likes it, drawing it out; a twist on the upstroke, legs spread, fingers probing forbidden crevices...

It felt so good. The players on the telly hugged, squeezing each other’s shoulders, slamming their chests against each other, skin to skin. Their oversized tank tops barely covered their torsos, allowing good views of strong biceps and damp armpits. They removed those jerseys entirely when they left the court.

After the third quarter Oliver had felt like bursting. He’d pushed his pants down all the way, spat in his hand and started to work his swollen cock in earnest. The players were mostly huge, black hunks but one midfielder was smaller, leaner, with dark, curly hair and olive skin. Oliver stared at him as his hand sped up, the index finger of his other hand pressing against that taboo place, sliding in, the stretch burning deliciously.

He’d come all over his fingers, crumpled pants and even the coffee table. This had led to him crouching on all fours minutes later, cleaning up his mess while still half-hard. The fear of having missed a spot haunted his sleep last night.

He really doesn’t want Claire to discover his habits and draw her conclusions. Maybe she would just laugh. 

Though Oliver doubts it.

Some of her remarks in relation to current news make him think he can’t bank on her understanding. ( _‘What a silly acronym.’_ She’d laughed when listening to an interview with the president mid-September. - _‘Do they really have to talk about it like this? How about some decency? Why mention it all the time? It’s a little disgusting, don’t you think, Oliver?’_ Had been her response to Rock Hudson dying just last week.)

Things have been a little tense between them as of lately. They both have much on their respective plates. Claire’s a lecturer at Columbia as well, teaching economics. They both love their jobs as teachers and try to be available for their students so they often come home late. On the weekends, they’re meeting friends and family. They are a popular couple, so there’s a steady string of invitations coming in which have to be returned.

It doesn’t help that both their parents ask more and more often about any ‘news’ – which is their way of inquiring if Claire’s expecting by now.

Well, she isn’t. They both have agreed to wait a few years until their careers are more established. Claire has no intention to give up her position and become a housewife, a fact her mother, who’d done just that, never gets tired of lamenting. But Oliver loves Claire for it; for her stubbornness, her determination, her rebellious streak hidden beneath cream-colored suits and sensible flats.

Home alone, they used to make fun off their families, but just a few weeks back Oliver discovered folic acid in the bathroom cabinet while looking for Aspirin. When he’d thought about it, he’d realized that the Enovid dispenser usually lying next to the sink had vanished.

Maybe all of this is another reason why Oliver has been looked forward to Claire’s absence?

But she’ll return in two days. So he decided to make the most of his freedom.

Usually, he wouldn’t frequent a rental service like ‘Blue Men’ in Hell’s Kitchen. He’d found their flyer back in summer in a call box near the campus. He’d put it in the pocket of his coat and kept it in a drawer in his office beneath boxes of color ribbon, too afraid to take it home.

The leaflet advertised ‘steamy hot movies with explicit man-to-man action’ and just the sample pics printed on it got Oliver hard. He’d felt bad and guilty but couldn’t help looking at it during his lunch break. After intensive soul searching, he decided that it was better for him to watch a movie now and then than to pick up a hustler at Washington Square Park.

He’d been there just once, last winter. It had been a sobering experience. Very young boys had hung about, inadequately dressed in flimsy jeans and sports jackets, sniffing glue, with gaunt, hardened faces, their thin bodies already marked by substance abuse, their dead eyes following him, staring, knowing exactly why he came there. Oliver had to take a hot shower after returning home to.

Enjoying a movie in the privacy of his apartment seemed so much safer in many aspects.

That’s why he’s now hiding a copy of ‘Italian Love Rod’ in his briefcase next to papers on Plato’s Cave. At least the Greek philosopher wouldn’t mind, only maybe complain about the cheesy title. But the blurb promised ‘varied sexy encounters between younger and older men in the Italian countryside’ next to some very enticing photos of pouting dark-haired boys with huge eyes, convincing Oliver he simply had to rent it. He even bought a bottle of Frizzante on his way home.

It almost feels like a date.

He showers first and gets into comfy clothes – as his sweat pants are in the wash he decides on his bath robe. The wine is chilled and he pours himself a glass, taking the bottle with him over to the coffee table next to their brown corduroy sofa. He feels he needs a drink before sliding the tape into the slot of the video recorder.

There’s no turning back now.

Oliver fumbles with the remotes until the screen flickers first with gray and then with colorful grizzle before the images stabilize.

The music tries really hard to sound Italian – mandolins chiming over an accordion – and the performers try hard as well. The dialogue is forced. But that doesn’t matter when the guys get down to business. Apparently, the movie is set in some kind of all-male Italian college or boarding-school, but no one teaches or learns anything academic there. All everyone does is making out, usually a teacher with or more of his students.

Oliver feels a little ridiculous but he has to admit that it works.

He’s getting hard. 

So hard that he fears this might be over way too fast. He tries to go slowly.

He makes it through a scene in which two lean, hairless boys give their older, hairy teacher a blow job, alternating sucking his cocks and balls while moaning all the way through. The teachers shoots over both their faces as they kiss passionately, jerking each other off.

Oliver has to pinch the base of his cock and takes another sip of the Frizzante to calm down.

The next scene has another professor eating the ass of a blond student in a sunny meadow by a stream. They both make the most peculiar noises and the older man comes all over the younger’s back.

After a cut, Oliver watches a new couple in a class room. The teacher is sitting at his desk while a student rides him, his dark curls bouncing, his back towards the camera.  
Oliver blinks. Something about that pale back seems eerily familiar. Must be the dark curls that fool him, the downy nape, the long column of a throat, the birthmark next to the right shoulder blade…

As the camera pans out Oliver sees the teacher grabbing the small ass cheeks of the boy, squeezing them. There seems to be a tattoo on one of them, something round and small.

The boy moans something in Italian. What the fuck! Oliver thinks. That voice! Jesus, how is that possible? Is his mind playing tricks on him?

It isn’t.

The camera moves around to finally show the boy’s face.

No!

How the hell…???

His hair is a little longer; his cheekbones are sharper. His green eyes are closed while his mouth forms a perfect O, hanging open in a perfect display of blissful ecstasy.

It’s Elio.

The shock nearly floors Oliver but his treacherous cock twitches in his grip, eager, thick and wet.

Oliver knows he should stop the tape but he can’t. He has to watch this. Has to watch Elio riding this stranger.

He still remembers his smell – lemons and soap, saltwater and Mafalda’s detergent, sometimes with the note of fresh sweat underneath. So he can remember how Elio would smell if it was him who was squeezing his buttocks, buried to the hilt in his tight hot ass.

God, that ass…

Oliver’s hand speeds up. Elio bites his lips, his face contorting before his forehead drops onto the man’s shoulder.

“No!” Oliver gasps. “Look at me!”

As if Elio has heard him, he lifts his head again. There’s a flush on his cheeks and sweat is pooling on his upper lip. His eyes are wide open now… those iridescent eyes, the pupils small like pinpricks in a sea of blue and green seem to bore right into Oliver’s soul.

“Così buono!” Elio moans and even if Oliver has forgotten most of his Italian by now he understands. Yet despite his words Elio’s face is slack, almost blank, his eyes fixed right at the camera.

Oliver squeezes his cock once, twice, and when Elio closes his eyes as the man starts to pound into him in earnest Oliver thrusts up into his fist as well and comes and comes, so hard he almost falls off the couch, literally blacking out.

When he can look at the TV again he sees some naked boys outside jump into a river. But Oliver doesn’t care anymore.

He wipes his hand on a couch cushion before pressing stop on the remote. The screen freezes, a youthful crotch on full display. His legs are wobbly as he staggers over to the TV set and presses the button. The video recorder purrs as it spits out the tape. Oliver carefully puts it back in its case.

He squints at the back-cover, trying to read the names of the performers. They are all ludicrous: Toni Gigante, Rex Heat, Ricci Luv… but no Elio Perlman. Well, he would probably use a pseudonym like apparently everyone else. Oliver drops the case, hiding it beneath the soiled cushion.

He decides to take a bath, downing the rest of the Frizzante, and tries not to think of what just happened.

That he jerked off to watching Elio getting fucked by some stranger.

That he watched his precious Elio in a porn flick.

How could this happen?

When the water turns cold and the bottle is empty Oliver feels somewhat buzzed. He stumbles back into his living room and puts the tape back on, winding it forward to the end credits without looking at the men and boys moving comically fast on his screen.

He has to watch the credits twice to find ‘naughty boy in class’. As Oliver reads the name he knows He found what he’s been looking for.

Tim Albicocka.

Oliver laughs out loud. Oh, Elio… a naughty boy indeed.

Only later, when he lies in bed, staring at the white ceiling does what he saw fully sink in.

Elio filmed a porn movie.

Oliver sits up abruptly, feeling nauseous.

He still talks to Samuel and Annella at least once a month on the phone. They exchange letters on research projects but also birthday cards or good wishes for Rosh Hashanah.

But they never mention Elio.

He’s the elephant in the room. Oliver never asks. His parents never share stories about their son. The silence might be telling in itself but neither of them dares to break it.

Elio’s name had been missing on the card the Perlman’s sent for his and Claire’s wedding.

Since that somewhat fateful phone call almost two years ago they haven’t spoken to one another. If he doesn’t talk about Elio not missing him becomes easier. 

At least that’s what Oliver has tried to persuade himself to believe.

Elio must have finished school by now. Given how bright he was, he certainly went on to University. But what he might study and where Oliver has no idea.

And how on earth did this gifted, beautiful, highly intelligent boy ended up doing gay porn? Was it a one-off, or did he do more?

Does Oliver really want an answer to this question?

Of course, he could ask Samuel about Elio’s whereabouts, casually, during their next phone call. But wouldn’t that disturb their safe equilibrium? 

Has enough time passed to take this risk?

In the beginning of his recovery, after his return from Italy, every dark-haired boy he saw in the streets had him turn his head. It had gotten better with time but, especially inebriated, he sometimes still can’t resist staring at tall, thin, pale boys with a mop of dark curls.

He hates Bach’s piano music. 

Sometimes just the smell of apricots makes him sick.

He’s tried to forget. He’s tried to be with Claire, and only with Claire. She’s his wife. He’s pledged himself to her before the world and god.

And yet…

Tonight, his head is filled with new pictures, fresh visuals. The images of Elio from their summer together had mercifully started fading, the edges blurring with the sepia touch of nostalgic yearning. But when he closes his eyes right now he sees it all again, sharp and clear: Elio’s lovely red mouth, his pale, freckled shoulders, the muscles of his narrow chest, his tiny, hard nipples… and his cock, jutting out pink and wet and delicious from a nest of dark, downy hair.

Oliver still remembers his taste; the sensation of holding him, touching him, lying next to him, listening to him breathing. The feeling of Elio inside him…

He never did anything like this with another man before – or afterwards.

Oliver hates himself but he’s getting hard again. He knows he’ll have to take care of it; it’s no use ignoring it. His tumbling thoughts would only keep him up all night. He has to teach a seminar in the morning. He needs his rest.

So he tries to make quick work of it, allowing his mind one last time to evoke those sinful memories of Elio getting fucked good and hard into his tight, tight ass.

It doesn’t take long for him to finish. Thank god Claire keeps Kleenex on the nightstand.

Overwhelmed by a guilty conscience, he eventually falls into a shallow, dreamless sleep.

The next morning he wakes up with a headache and almost forgets to put the tape back into his briefcase. He wants to return it tonight.

He very decidedly doesn’t look at the cover.

The seminar he teaches is boring, even to him. Later, there’s a faculty meeting Oliver spends doodling on his notepad. He tries to grade the papers he took with him last night in his office during the afternoon but eventually gives up.

He needs some air, so he walks down Columbus. When it eventually becomes 9th Avenue he gives in to his craving and gets a drink at a bar on the corner of West 54th. The alcohol burns on his empty stomach. He has forgotten breakfast and skipped lunch as well.

The video store is empty as he arrives around six. It’s the same queasy looking dude behind the counter Oliver remembers from yesterday, wearing a baseball cap turned the wrong way round, a pink crop top and tight bleached jeans, a blue bandana hanging from his right back-pocket.

Oliver has made the firm decision to just return the movie and be done with this whole thing, brushing it off as a one time only mistake but as the attendant takes his time to take the tape back, opening the cover, checking if everything is alright, he wavers.

“So, was it any good? You’re returning it quite soon.” The man looks up at him. His eyes are dark brown, his voice is soft. He’s painted his fingernails with glitter nail polish but it’s peeling off.

“Well, it was okay… I guess.” Oliver licks his lips. How do you review a porn film? Thank god he’s the only customer right now.

“You guess?” The attendant raises an eyebrow and winks. “Well then…,” He turns to put the film on a shelf behind the counter.

Oliver has no idea why he does speak again. It’s almost like he’s on autopilot.

“There’s an… actor in it. Tim Albicocka.” He can’t believe he’s saying this. He can feel his face burn. But the guy just turns back to him and grins.

“Oh, yeah, he’s a sweet one, isn’t he? Perfect little bottom. Such a lovely cock. Great sucker, too. He’s new but already made a few movies with Hammer Films. Wait.”

He slips from behind the counter and walks over into a corner. Oliver follows as if pulled by invisible strings.

There are many tapes with the catchy logo of a muscled man swinging a huge hammer between his legs piled on display racks. The titles Oliver can read make him cringe but also hard:

_Toy Boy Galore_

_Young Ass Action_

_Sperm Devils_

_Swallow My Prick_

The covers show young, lean boys, hairless chests, faces and thighs, their expressions contorted in what must be pleasure as they are taken by older men or servicing them on their knees. Oliver feels his mouth go dry.

The shop-assistant rummages through his stock to finally present Oliver with three tapes.

“He’s in this one. It’s mostly oral. Great rimming scene with that hairy bloke. Felching. Hmmm.” Oliver can’t believe he’s actually having this conversation but nods as he takes the video and looks at the title: _Oral Fixation 2_. Well…

“Here he’s in that group action. They use him real hard, almost destroying that pretty little ass. Double penetration. You into gaping, man? Then this is your movie.”

Oliver’s finger shake as he reaches for _“Broken & Used. The Untold Story of a Street Kid.”_ Elio’s on the cover, his mouth hanging open, eyes staring right at Oliver as he kneels on a concrete floor surrounded by at least six naked guys, their cocks looking enormous compared to Elio’s light frame. His gaze is both vacant and somewhat fearful.

“Now, this one's for the connoisseur of the darker arts.” Oliver glances at the title. _'Bound to You'_. The cover shows two strong fists holding a black rope. “Bondage, whipping. Does that get you going?”

Oliver prays for the ground to swallow him whole.

He buys all three films and swears to never set foot into that dingy video store again. He tightly clutches the brown paper bag holding his purchase the whole subway ride home.  
Arriving at his apartment, he feels the need to shower to wash off the seedy scent that seems to cling to him. Afterwards, he changes into track suit bottoms and a hoodie. He knows he should eat something but he's not hungry. Not for food anyway.

He stares down at the tapes on his coffee table. With which one should he start? He probably will only be able to watch one movie tonight. Tomorrow, Claire will be back. He's not even sure he'll dare to keep those films in the apartment. Where to hide them?

So it's just this one chance of seeing Elio again. How does he want him? Orally fixated? Broken and used? Or Bound and whipped?

He wants to start with the tamest... but he also has to know how far Elio is prepared to go. Yet Bondage and spanking hits a little too close to home for Oliver.

He remembers the one time he'd brought it up with Claire, turning his question into a joke. She'd laughed at first but then she'd looked at him and sternly stated that she was a feminist and his wife and that these were two reasons why she would never indulge in such things should he been serious.

Oliver had laughed it off, of course.

Another fantasy he had to bury.

So he decides on _'Broken and Used'_. It seems to take place in some kind of warehouse. Elio is dragged in from a car boot, already half-naked and bruised. There are guys hanging about, drinking. When they see Elio they round him up, hold him down and rip his remaining clothes off. Then they start to touch him. He squirms, trying to escape but the men force him on his hands and knees. Soon, he has a cock up his ass and another one in his mouth. He drools, gags, splutters. He gasps. He tries to fight back, to escape. 

He screams. 

They make him take it. 

And more. And more. Two cocks at once, his hole angry red and swollen, already dripping cum. He's just silently crying at that point, his eyes unfocused, the pupils the size of pinheads. They hold a small bottle under his flaring nostrils. He throws his head back and howls. Someone shoots his load all over his face and he greedily starts to lap it up.

It’s sick. It’s depraved. It’s brutal.

Oliver is embarrassed how hard this makes him. He knows Elio. He's sure he’s not acting. He's suffering, in pain but lets those men use him, degrade him, humiliate him.

Rape him.

It pushes Oliver's suppressed dark buttons. He’d always wanted to break that boy, own him, crawl under his skin, look behind that nonchalant, educated facade. He thought he had on some occasions.

But this is something else.

He watches the whole video, coming twice.

It ends with Elio lying on the concrete floor, eyes closed, covered in sweat and cum. One of the men kicks him and he barely twitches. The screen goes dark.

“Fuck.” Oliver mutters. He feels in dire need of another shower.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call abruptly changes Oliver's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for welcoming me back, reading, commenting and subscribing! I hope you'll enjoy my take on Elio and Oliver. This is new territory for me but I wanted to try something different for the change.

Claire's been back for three weeks and things are going south rapidly.

When she goes to Aerobic class after work on Tuesdays and Thursdays with her friend Gina Oliver finishes early, goes home, and jerks off to one of his three films featuring Elio. Apparently, he doesn't get tired watching the same scenes over and over.

After overcoming his first shock he has to say that _'Oral Fixation 2'_ is the tamest of his films. Elio he has three great scenes in it – one deep-throating, one glory-hole blow-job, and one getting rimmed within an inch of his life. The noises he makes had Oliver coming all over himself barely five minute in at his first viewing.

His desire to watch Elio even overcame his fear of keeping the tapes in the apartment. He hides them in a drawer of his writing desk – one he can lock. Still, he stuffs them beneath a stash of copying paper and letters and puts the key on his key-chain.

The videos are his secret escape from a marriage that is cooling off at remarkable speed.

Since his wife came back from her conference, she's made a few attempts to be with Oliver - sexually. But he simply can't. Not even in the dark, with Claire facing away from him. If things had been bad – or challenging – in the past, it had always helped Oliver to take her from behind. But not even that works for him anymore.

Because it's Elio's skinny, bony frame he desires – not Claire's soft curves.

And because his wife is not stupid, she notices. Up until now, Oliver had always been able to placate her, to blame his lack of libido and desire on his job, the stress, even too much alcohol. And Claire had been understanding. But now her patience wears thin.

Maybe because she'll turn thirty in January.

Both their parents have been asking them since their wedding when they were planning to start a family. They both used to laugh it off but over the last few months Claire's laugh has waned.

Oliver's pretty sure she wants a baby before she turns thirty-one.

Which means he has to fuck her.

But he can't.

Claire has touched him a few times since her return – but he stayed soft, no matter how much effort she put in. Even taking him in her mouth – a rare favor – didn't help.

Only when he evoked the image of Elio in his mind, almost choking on a massive cock, it seemed to work – but then Claire pulled off and whispered an endearment in his ear and the illusion was gone.

It's hopeless – he simply can't perform. Which leads to sighs, questions, discussions, and fights. Just this morning Claire demanded he should see a doctor to help him with his 'difficulties'!

Thank got it's Thursday. As he had a row back at College with another Professor about the usage of the department's only overhead projector, he feels in the mood for _'Bound to You'_. He has no difficulty getting it up watching Elio tied down to a bed, some muscled bloke spanking him, first with his hand, then with some sort of paddle. He's blond, wearing a white t-shirt, tight jeans and boots and calls Elio a slut and a bad boy who needs to be punished. 

Elio's face contorts in a mixture of pleasure and pain as he grinds against the mattress. He promises to be good and begs for the flogging to stop until a gag is shoved in his mouth and he can only grunt and drool. 

Oliver knows it's disturbing that this turns him on so much. But, god, had he fantasized about something like that: Elio, the brat that he is, full of mischief and temptation, bent over his lap, his big hand coming down again and again onto the tender flesh of Elio's pretty pale buttocks. He would watch the red impression of his hand fade and then replace it with a new one, and Elio would wail and protest while at the same time he would rock and rub himself against Oliver's legs until Oliver allowed him to shoot his load. 

The Elio in the video comes eventually after almost half an hour of punishment, his ass beaten red and raw, his voice reduced to hoarse sobs. His dom unties him and makes him crawl afterwards, kneeling next to his clunky black boots, spit dripping from his chin.

Oliver's panting hard as well, his hand sticky from his own release, as the telephone starts to ring.

“Fuck.” He groans, quickly wiping his fingers on his t-shirt before pulling his pants half up his thighs and hopping over into the kitchen to take the call. It could be important. It could be Claire, or his parents to arrange something for Thanksgiving later this month.

“Yeah.” He grunts, wedging the receiver between his cheek and his shoulder, still trying to straighten his clothes.

“Ciao, Oliver.” It's Annella Perlman, Elio's mother. Jesus!

“Ciao, Mrs P.” Oliver tries to sound just how he would sound taking a call on a normal Thursday evening, maybe being disturbed over grading some papers. But he's sure he fails. Glancing back over his shoulder he sees the face of Annella's precious son, frozen on the TV screen, his mouth still stuffed with a rubber ball, eyes closed in bliss, his naked body decorated with splashes of semen.

Fuck!

“Oliver, please, we've been over this.” Her words sound slightly slurred. Oliver checks his watch. It must be the middle of the night in Italy.

“Sorry, Annella.” He swallows. “How are you?”

“I'm... I'm fine?” It sounds like a question. “And you? What about you?”

“Me? Yeah, I'm great.” He knows it sounds hollow.

“That's fantastic.” There's a pause before Annella continues. “Listen, Oliver... have you heard from Elio?”

They never do this. They never talk about Elio. They never mention his name. Ever.

Oliver swallows. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still tasting his own cum. Closes his eyes. Opens them, trying to look at anything but his TV.

“Annella, listen-,” he sighs.

But Elio's mum cuts him short.

“Oliver, please, Samuel would never talk to you about it... he would never ask... but I'm his mother. I have to know. It hurts too much. I'm... I'm...”

It sounds as if she's crying.

“Annella, please... I'm sorry. What's going on?”

“Oh, Oliver, we haven't heard from Elio since spring. Now, a few weeks back, UCLA wrote to us that he didn't turn up anymore. Apparently, he dropped out. He moved out of his dorm, without a forwarding address. We contacted all of his friends but no one knows or tells us anything. I'm just... so worried. That something happened to him. That he fell in with the wrong lot, you know. And there are drugs all over the place in California...”

She's definitely crying now.

Oliver can't tell her. He can't tell Elio's mother that he saw her son in porn films, watched one just minutes ago. It's just... it wouldn't help her. At all.

“And today was Mafalda’s birthday. He always calls or writes for her birthday. But… nothing. Oliver, I’m so worried…”

“Sorry, Annella... but he hasn't been in touch.” It's the truth.

He can hear her sniffle at her end of the line. But he can also hear a key turning in the lock. Shit!

“Okay, Oliver, but-”

He has to hang up. Now. “Annella, believe me, if I hear anything from him, you'll be the first to know-”

“Oliver, darling, I'm home early. Gina didn't feel well-”

Silence.

“Annella, I'm sorry.”

“Oliver, mio caro, what-”

Oliver slams the receiver down in the middle of Annella’s apologies and runs back over into the living room to grab the remote control.

But he's too late.

Claire is staring at the TV screen, holding the case of _'Bound to You'_ in her small, soft hands.

“Hi, babe.” Oliver tries to act as if there's not gay porn on his telly, casually switching it off.

But Claire just looks down at the case in her hands, her face drained of all color. She pushes her hair back and drops her gym bag before raising her head and staring at Oliver with big, moist eyes. 

“Oliver, what is... this?” She waves the cover with the guy holding the rope in his direction before throwing it onto the coffee table as if it's on fire. The case bounces off and skitters to the floor, popping open, revealing even more obscene pictures on the inside: Elio naked, tied up, a ball gag in his mouth, eyes wide, bend over a rack, a whip curling around his torso. Oliver had been looking forward to those scenes later.

The biggest image shows Elio with a cock in his mouth Oliver wishes was his.

“I'm sorry, Claire. You shouldn't have to see this. It's disgusting, I know. I'm doing research for a new seminar on-”

“Cut the crap, Oliver!” She doesn't even raise her voice but nonetheless Oliver falls silent. “Is that the reason you wouldn't sleep with me? Are you... a homosexual?”

“Claire, listen, it's not like that. It's a kind of joke-”

“Are you?” Her voice is hard and angry.

Is he?

He'd actually never allowed himself to think about it in such bold terms. Attracted to men, yes. Bisexual, maybe.

But homosexual? Gay? A poof? A shirtlifter?

Those men wear feather boas, talk effeminate, watch _Denver Clan_... and are dying right now like flies.

Oliver wears jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers. He loves barbecues, drinking beer, watching football. He jogs, lifts weights, plays volleyball, swims. He's healthy. He's no pansy. He's a real man. He can fix a leaking shower, he can even repair a car. Or chop wood – not that there's a crying need for that in New York City. He only wears muted colors. He washes himself with plain soap and doesn't even own a deodorant.

He's not flamboyant. He's not a fag.

But just the thought of Elio's white skin, his flat chest, his silky, leaking cock makes him grow hard.

He still has cum on his t-shirt from jerking off.

Fuck!

“I... I don't know. Perhaps.” He swallows, wondering where this honesty comes from.

“Perhaps?” Claire spits the word out. “Perhaps! You married me in front of all our friends, family, and god, but perhaps that was a mistake?!”

Oliver shakes his head. “No! Look, I'm sorry-”

“You're not even denying it, you asshole!”

Claire never, ever swears.

Next thing Oliver knows is that she grabs her gym bag, turns and stomps out of the door, slamming it shut. The noise echoes through the empty flat.

Oh god!

What did just happen?

He's shaking, realizing he's sweating. Time seems to stand still for a moment.

Oliver flops down onto the couch, feeling sick and tired. His head is pounding. He clutches a cushion and buries his face in it. No one should see that he's crying.

Because men don't cry.

He has no idea how long he's been sitting like that when the phone starts to ring again.

He drags himself up and over into the kitchen. It could be Claire. He has to answer.

“Oliver?” It's a man's voice. It takes Oliver a moment to place it. Samuel. Why can't the Perlman's just leave him in peace? They've ruined his life thoroughly enough tonight.

“Yeah.” He breathes down the line.

“Sorry for disturbing you.” Samuel sounds truly apologetic. “But Annella is in... quite a state.”

“Yeah, we talked earlier. It's just... not very good timing, that's all.”

“Yes. I get that. Please, excuse us for intruding. Under normal circumstances we would never... Elio is an adult. We raised him responsible to live his own life. But now...”

Samuel falls silent.

Oliver doesn't want to ask but has to. “What do you mean, under normal circumstances? What's going on?” Do they know?

Samuel coughs, then laughs. It sounds forced. “Well, I was feeling a bit under the weather, lately. So I had a few tests done.” Cold dread creeps up Oliver's spine. “As it is, I have a brain tumor. The doctors won't operate. Too dangerous. They give me just a few weeks.”

“What?” Oliver's legs give out. He sinks down onto the linoleum, cross-legged, his back to the wall.

“I'm dying, Oliver. The tumor is steadily growing. I might lose my eyesight soon. The headaches are... bad. I'm already on morphine.”

“Oh my god.” Oliver whispers. Not Samuel! Not decent, funny, generous, kind, smart as hell Samuel Perlman. “I don't know what to say.” Something wet runs down his cheeks and it takes him a moment to realize it's a tear. Suddenly the scene with Claire is put into perspective.

It's not the end of the world.

“Neither do I, Oliver. But... we have to find Elio. We have to tell him. We tried everything we could. I even urged Annella to fly over but she won't leave me. I was against approaching you because... well, I know this is painful. For you. But, apparently, my wife made her own decision.” He sounds both amused and proud.

“What can I do, Samuel?”

“I'm so sorry, but we hope you can find Elio. I know it's a lot to ask but we tried everybody else. Even the Italian embassy. He just dropped off the radar. But he has to know what's happening. I... I want to see him one last time before-”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Oliver interrupts. He can't listen to Samuel say it. “I'll do what I can.”

“Oh my god, thank you so much, Oliver.” He sincerely hopes Samuel won't start to cry as well. He couldn't handle it. “He had been reading history at UCLA for the last year. But... things have been strained, even before he left Italy. He'd changed.”

Oliver swallows. “I hope that wasn't my fault.”

The silence following this question is telling.

Samuel sighs eventually. “I know it has been a difficult time. For both of you. These things are always messy. I had hoped that Elio was young enough to forget but maybe he took it more serious than I thought...”

Oliver feels bile rise in his throat. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth and breathes through his nose for a moment to collect himself.

“But I don't blame you.” Samuel sounds very tired.

“Can you give me his last known address and the name of his tutor?” Oliver asks to spare Elio's father venturing further down an unsavory memory lane.

“Sure. He was living in a dorm at Dykstra Hall but we already spoke with his roommate, he knows nothing of his whereabouts. His tutor was a Dr Melissa Rhys but she hasn't seen Elio since May.”

Oliver grabs a block from the kitchen counter and jots down the information. “Do you know if he's still in LA? Does he have money of his own?”

“We don't know where he is. And yes, we set up an account for him in the States so he didn't have to beg us for everything. It got emptied in May as well.”

“Okay. Yeah. I... I promise to do my best.” Oliver could tell Elio's father right now that his son is still alive, shooting porn movies. But no, he can't. It would worry Samuel only more.

He has to find Elio and tell him what's going on, urge him to call home. And knowing what Elio does for a living might give him an advantage his parents don't have. But he will keep his secret. He owes Elio at least this much.

“I'll be in touch as soon as I know more, okay?”

“Oliver, I don't know how to thank you.”

They hang up before it gets too emotional. Oliver slowly stands up and walks back into his living room.

He rakes a hand through his hair. What the fuck did he just agree to? He's not a private detective – he teaches Greek philosophy. How is he supposed to find Elio when his parents have already tried everything?

He bends down and picks up the case of _'Bound to You_ ', turning it in his hands, staring down at Elio's naked body.

Hammer Films. 

He needs to locate them. He's pretty sure they can help him get in touch with Tim Albicocka.

Oliver has a mission now. It'll take his mind off Claire finding out his biggest secret, his marriage imploding, Samuel dying. 

He has to find Elio. 

That's all that matters right now.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver starts his search for Elio and ends up not where he'd expected...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, kudoing, commenting and subscribing! I'm so happy people seem to like this story.
> 
> As a special bonus, there's a piece of art for this chapter, created by the fabulous [ chalamazed](https://chalamazed.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

The next day, Oliver gets up early, makes himself a strong coffee, and grabs the phone.

“Directory enquiries, how can I help you?” The voice on the other end of the line sounds bored and metallic. Oliver can't even make out if it's a man or a woman he's talking to.

“Hi, good morning, I need a number, please.”

“Hmm.” Nothing more is forthcoming.

“Yeah, well...” Oliver swallows. “Hammer Films. Like the tool. H A M M E R.”

“And where are they based?” The monotonous voice asks.

“I don't know.” Oliver frowns. “The US.”

“Very funny, man. Do you have a state or town for me?”

“No.” Oliver hears how desperate he sounds. “That's why I'm calling enquiries.”

“Sorry, but without a little more information I can't help you.”

Fuck! Oliver drums his fingers on the kitchen counter. “Okay, try... New York.”

“State or City?”

“City.”

It takes ages. Oliver nervously twirls the phone cord round and round his fingers.

“Sorry, no Hammer Films listed in New York City.”

Shit.

What did Samuel say, where did Elio study? UCLA.

“Can you try Los Angeles, please?”

It takes another five minutes.

“Sorry, nothing there either. I have _Hammer & Tools_, a hardware store, _Hammer & Sickle_, apparently a bar, _Hammer Head_ , a hairdresser... but no Hammer Films.”

“Okay, thank you, could you try-”

“You want me to check all fifty states?”

“Why not?”

“Sorry, but there are waiting calls. Come back if you have more details, okay. Good day.”

The operator hangs up on him. Oliver stares at the beeping receiver for half a minute before replacing it onto the hook.

Okay, it seems he has to find out more about Hammer Films. He dreads it but he knows exactly where to go to do so.

The day passes by in a blur. He teaches a course, meets with students, listens to their more or less creative apologies for why their papers are late. 

He should work on an article on Heraclitus that's due for publication but just thinking about the subject matter takes him back to Italy two years ago. Remembering his discussions with Samuel makes him emotional. To escape his growing despair he even opts for a vile coffee from the vending machine down the corridor just to have an excuse to get out of his office and away from his research.

Around midday, he phones Elio's tutor at UCLA. Dr Rhys describes him as an earnest young man, highly intelligent – but surrounded by a cloud of anger and sadness. His papers had been exceptional, even if his thoughts had become more and more radical. He'd started being late and then to miss appointments since March. She confides in Oliver that she thought he'd been doing drugs but had no proof for it. 

She has no idea where he might be now.

Oliver thanks her and hangs up.

The Elio Dr Rhys described doesn't sound like the vibrant, talented boy Oliver had met two years ago. True, he had displayed a mopy, brooding streak back then as well, but what teenager doesn't? 

(Because, yeah, Elio had still been a teenager when Oliver had taken him to bed. The thought never ceases to both excite and repel him.)

But at Uni Elio seemed to have lost his ease and enthusiasm quite quickly. Oliver knows it can happen, has seen it in some of his own students. It can be complicated to get to the root of it. In most cases, it's a mixture of homesickness, too much pressure and wrong choices.

Did this happen to Elio as well? Did he decide on the wrong subject, college, class? Was California too far away from Europe, his parents, his friends? Elio had always seemed a true cosmopolitan, speaking three languages fluently, moving with ease between the cultures… but maybe Oliver had been wrong? Maybe Elio had felt lonely and forlorn like so many other teenagers. Like Oliver had felt himself at that age, unsure of everything: who he was, who he wanted to be. Whom he loved. And how he could keep pleasing everybody…

These thoughts bounce around in his head after the phone call until he doubts everything he was sure he knew about Elio.

All Oliver can bring himself to do is going through his post. There's a proof from his publisher he has to read; invitations to speak at conferences in Chicago, London and San Francisco next year... a letter from an ex-colleague currently teaching in Rome, proposing a joined research project on imperial Roman sculptures.

All the while, Oliver is glancing at his watch, willing its hands to move quicker.

At five, he almost flees from his office and makes his way to Hell’s Kitchen again.

The tacky video store is his only link to Hammer Films.

The shop assistant – or maybe he’s the owner? – greets Oliver as if he’s a regular by now. Today he's wearing a tight orange t-shirt and low cut yellow satin trousers. His wardrobe never stops to amaze Oliver.

“Ah, man, are you after Albicocka's new movie? Just got it in today. Great stuff. There's this scene where he wanks in front of the camera, smoking. He really takes his time. That cock – just wow, man, you can see every vein.”

Oliver feels heat pool in his groin and hates himself even more than he hates the video store clerk.

“Well, yeah, sounds good.”

The man bends down and lifts a cardboard box onto the counter from which he takes a still sealed video tape. It shows Elio – Tim – with his green jocks just pushed below his hard cock, jutting out obscenely yet enticing. His right hangs dangles at his side, holding a cigarette. The shot is taken from below, giving Oliver a perfect view up Elio's lean body, his concave belly, flat chest, right up to his face framed by wild curls, looking down at him.

Oliver feels his knees go a little weak at the sight.

“Hot, uh?” The clerk asks.

Oliver can just nod. “Is that made by Hammer Films as well?” He asks.

“Sure, I think they have him under contract. Exclusively.”

Oliver clears his throat. “Actually, I was wondering... do you know where Hammer Films are located?”

Thy thin guy stares at him somewhat suspiciously, his free hand playing with a golden chain around his neck. “Why? Do you wanna cut out the middle man? There are mailing lists, of course, but hey, I'm one of their few official dealers over here-”

“And that's why I came to you.” Oliver knows how it works. Years in academia have taught him how to suck up to someone if nothing else. “I knew you could help me out. Listen, I don't want to get into your hair or anything. It's just... I'm a fucking big fan and I would like to gift Tim something special...”

The clerk frowns, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Oliver knows that he tries to figure him out, tries to determine if he's a weird creep, a sugar daddy or whatever; maybe tries to determine what's in for him. Good.

“All I need is an address. So I can write to them. To Tim. That's all I'm asking. If you could kindly provide that I'd be really very grateful.” Oliver fishes for his purse and makes a show of extracting a fifty Dollar bill he subsequently drops casually onto the counter.

Spidery, tattooed fingers reach for the money, shoving it into a pocket of those tight shiny pants.

“Let me have a look.” The clerk turns and vanishes through a beaded curtain into what must be some sort of office.

While Oliver waits, he can't take his eyes off the video tape the clerk has left on the counter. He licks his lips and imagines he’s the one on his knees Elio is looking down at. That he’s about to taste that lovely hard cock while Elio keeps looking, sucking on his cigarette as his free hand rakes through Oliver’s hair…

His trousers are starting to feel too tight.

Luckily, the clerk comes back a few moments later with a slip of paper in his hand he gives to Oliver. It says 'Hammer Films, PO Box 1253, Salinas, California’.

“That’s it?” Oliver asks. “Just a postbox?”

“Well, man, you don’t actually put big neon signs up and advertise in this business. That’s where I send my orders to and that’s all I need to know.”

Well, at least, it’s a start, Oliver thinks. Maybe enquiries will be able to help him now?

“Thank you.” He puts the note in the pocket of his coat. The only thing he knows about Salinas is that John Steinbeck was born there.

When he turns to leave, the shop assistant stops him. “Hey, what about the new movie?”

Oliver swallows and feels himself blush. He remembers Elio's father, telling him about his brain tumor, Elio's mother crying on the phone, and here he is, lusting over their only son masturbating.

But it could also be called research, right?

So Oliver pays another twenty bucks and becomes the proud owner of _“Smoking Hot”_. He's just a little ashamed.

Back home, he calls enquiries again. A different yet equally bored voice answers him.

“Yeah, hi, I need a number in Salinas, California, please. Hammer Films?”

His request is answered with a sigh. “Hang on.”

Oliver waits while the operator does whatever it takes to find a phone number, staring down at the linoleum in his kitchen. There’s a brown stain where he spilled some coffee this morning.

Claire hates it when he doesn't clean up after himself.

But Claire didn’t come home last night.

He knows he should have called her office at the University today but somehow it seems more important to get the phone number of a porn producer than making sure his wife is alright and his marriage still intact.

She’ll be okay, he reassures himself. Claire’s always okay.

But he has no idea if _they_ are still okay. If there even still is a _‘they’_.

He should talk to her, explain. Claire’s neither a prude nor a homophobe. They've known each other for so long. They are bound together by laws of men and god. She has a right to know.

But he still fears confessing his affair with a seventeen year old boy to her as much as he did when he returned from Italy. Somehow he doubts that Claire will be able to understand or forgive him.

The voice of the operator pulls Oliver back into the here and now, reminding him of the task at hand. Right. Elio. He has to find Samuel’s and Annella’s son.

“Okay, Sir, do you have something to write?”

Oliver has. He scrawls the digits on the margin of the New York Times, then hangs up and stares down at them.

What time is it now in California? And what might the business hours of an enterprise like Hammer Films be?

It’s now seven in the evening in New York… so it should be afternoon in Salinas, right?

Oliver takes a deep breath and dials before he loses heart. The receiver almost slips from his sweaty palm.

“Hammer Films.” A female voice answers after the third ring.

“Well, yeah, hello.” He didn't think about what to say should someone really pick up. Shit!

“Hi, darling. What can I do for you?”

The voice sounds friendly.

What should he say? Directly inquiring after one of their actors might sound creepy. He's sure there's some sort of code of conduct in this industry that protects performers. At least he hopes so.

But what else can he ask?

“Uhm...,” he huffs.

There's a sigh at the other end. “Are you calling about the audition?”

An audition? Do people seriously audition to be in porn movies? How?

Oh god.

But that could be his chance to gather information.

“Yeah... kinda. I mean, I forgot where and when...”

“Oh, honey.” Another deep sigh. Oliver thinks he hears a chewing gum bubble burst. “It's tomorrow. You wanna drop by?”

Oliver swallows. “Yes. Please.”

“Okay, then I need some intel first.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks a lot.”

“Do you look as preppy as you sound?”

Oliver almost drops the phone. “Well...”

A throaty laugh on the other end cuts him short. “Have you ever worked in the industry? Do you have references?”

“I... no.” Damn! He had no idea this would be conducted so... professionally.

“Okay. A newbie. Nice. We'll need a pic of you. Can you fax a photo? Preferably something that shows off your... assets?”

Oliver blushes. “Uhm...,” he mutters again. The woman he's speaking to must think him somewhat dumb by now. But she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Darling, don't be shy. Just a topless pic will do, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” He has some photographs from the beach taken during the summer when he and Claire stayed with friends at the Hamptons.

“Great. I'll give you our fax number.” Oliver sticks the receiver between cheek and shoulder and writes it down on newspaper as well.

“What name shall I put on the list?”

He can't give his real name. Not to people like... this.

“Oliver... Perlman.” It comes out almost naturally.

There's another low laugh on the other end. “Oh! Perlman...” The woman falls silent for a moment. Gotcha!

She continues quickly: “Okay, let me just take down some basics. Hair color?”

“Blond.”

“Skin color?”

“I'm... white?” This sounds weird.

“Height?”

“6'5.”

“Wow! Measurements?”

Oliver coughs. “I... don't know.”

“Okay, give me your suite size.”

“40.”  
“Are you small, regular or large?”

It takes Oliver a moment to understand what she means.

“Uhm… I… well, I was told I’m rather large… compared to others.” His face is burning. ‘Rather large’ is a euphemism if there ever was one. Hung like a horse, Pepsi bottle, HUGE – that’s what his cock has been called. He vividly remembers his mortification, starting back in middle school dressing rooms right up to his first time with Elio when he’d thought he’d rip the boy apart.

“Okay, I chart you up as well-hung.” The matter-of-fact tone doesn't affront Oliver. On the contrary, he relaxes a little.

“Are you cut?”

He chuckles. This is getting surreal. “I'm Jewish so... yeah, I'm cut.”

The woman on the other end hums approvingly.

“Are you healthy?”

Healthy? Does she mean in general or free from STDs? Whatever. “Yes, I am.”

“Sounds good. Just don't forget to fax your picture. We don't have time to waste here. And we have to sort out the freaks and creeps beforehand. Write your phone number on the fax sheet as well. If I think you'll do I'll call you back and give you the address and time, okay?” The woman hangs up.

Oliver swallows, staring at the phone in his hand for almost a minute before putting it down himself. Because he is a creep, right? But it can't be helped. It's for a good cause. 

  
He walks over into the living room and gets one of their photo albums off the shelves. As he skims through it he tries to ignore Claire's face smiling up at him from the pages. Quickly, he chooses a photo of himself taken after a beach volleyball match. He's tanned, just wearing his green bathing shorts, his body glistening with sweat.

The Deli downstairs has a fax machine. Oliver has used it on some occasions when he had to send out urgent correspondence on weekends that couldn't wait for him being back in his office on Monday. He glues his photograph onto a white page, copies the fax number the woman has given him on top of it, writes his own number below the picture, and runs down the stairs.

The Deli is almost empty and Giovanni allows him into the tiny office to send his fax. Afterwards, he buys a bottle of wine and some Paninis. He's not hungry but it's his way of saying thank you for Giovanni's help.

The phone is already ringing when he unlocks his apartment door. He grabs it, a little breathless. He should take up jogging in the mornings again.

“This is not a joke, right?” It's the same woman's voice. “You didn't just rip this out of a sportswear catalogue. That's you, yes?”

“I swear to god.” Oliver can't suppress a little laugh.

“Okay, see you tomorrow. Six in the evening. 221 Front Street, Salinas. You got that?”

“Yes.” Oliver writes the address next to the fax and telephone numbers.

It seems he needs to book a flight to California – right now.

This is the cover of Elio's latest movie:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Isitandwonder](https://isitandwonder.tumblr.com) on tumblr


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver finally meet.
> 
> And Oliver auditions, dipping into Elio's world.

By noon the next day Oliver is driving his rental car up North from LA on the Route 101. The air is hot and the AC blasts on full force. Claire would warn him he'd get a cold.

For the first hundred miles or so the highway ran parallel to the Pacific coastline but now he's been passing through dry, yellow desert valleys for what feels like hours.

The dead landscape gives him room to think.

What the hell is he doing? He's a college professor from one of the most renowned Universities in the US, yet he took at flight at a godforsaken hour from New York over to the West coast to participate in a porn audition to find a boy he had a brief affair with years ago.

Why?

He somehow suspects the answer to be that running away from New York under the pretense of doing an old friend a favor is much easier than dealing with the collapse of his marriage and coming to terms with his own sexuality.

He still hasn't even tried to talk to Claire. He suspects she stays with one of her friends. He could have started making calls. But instead he's packed a small suitcase and phoned United Airlines to book a ticket.

The earliest flight had left JFK at six in the morning (Oliver refuses to think about the ridiculous amount of money it had cost him). Therefore, he didn't sleep much last night, and on the plane he just managed a few fitful naps.

Because he's fucking nervous, on the verge of freaking out completely.

He has no idea what to expect when he arrives at Hammer Films. Will he really go through with the audition? Or will he just ask for Elio, maybe even tell the truth why he came all the way from New York: that Elio's dad has been taken severely ill and needs his son...

Because that's the reason Oliver embarked on this crazy journey, right? Right.

He imagines that even people in the porn industry won't be that cold-hearted as to deny a dying man to see his only child one last time.

God, this sounds so cheesy!

Oliver rolls down the window because over here at least the weather in an improvement to rainy autumnal New York. The dry heat makes him sweat immediately as hot air fills the car, tousling his hair. He wishes he had a cigarette.

As he fumbles to tune the radio to a channel without static all he gets is a station playing 70s rock. When he hears The Eagles come on he sings along:

_'On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair_  
_Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air’_

The sun is shining bright and he has no idea what colitas are or how they smell but otherwise the song feels ridiculously fitting.

Eventually, the desert transforms slowly into green farmland and small towns with white bungalows sitting in neat front gardens.

Salinas is neither beautiful nor ugly. It looks like a very pragmatic, no-nonsense city. Front Street cuts right through it, dividing the town, leading up to the train station. There are mostly small businesses lined up on both sides, housed in functional one-story buildings. Number 221 looks much the same as its neighbors. There's no big sign advertising the illicit things going on inside. Yet the blinds are drawn in the large front windows. Everything seems almost boringly normal.

Oliver drives by the address two times before turning right, looking for a place to stay. He decides on the first motel he spots. It's not that he'll be here long. Maybe he can already leave tomorrow? So his accommodation doesn't really matter.

At least his room is clean.

He still has three hours before he's expected at Hammer Films, so he showers, shaves and lies on his bed in just his underwear, flipping through the channels on the small TV to kill time. It's nothing else here for him to do.

He didn't even bring a book.

At five, he dresses in a short-sleeved pale pink silk shirt (he bought on a whim two years back in Milan), blue jeans and sneakers, puts on his sunglasses and is about to leave when he remembers to take of his wedding ring. It feels a little strange, like a betrayal, but he reckons he's already past this subconscious guilt. He leaves the golden band on his nightstand next to an empty can of Coke from the minibar.

Back in his car, on his way to Hammer Films, it occurs to him that maybe he should eat something. He didn't have anything since the mediocre breakfast served on his flight. But he’s not really hungry and simply can't imagine keeping food down should he be able to swallow it.

His stomach feels funny. He hopes he's not getting sick.

It's a few minutes to six when he parks in front of 221 Front Street. His hands on the wheel feel sweaty so he wipes them on his jeans before getting out of the car. There's a small sign above the bell, simply reading Hammer Films.

Oliver takes a deep breath, presses the button, and waits.

He's buzzed in only a moment later, stepping into some kind of reception area. There's a desk with a flourishing palm tree next to it. The light is dim due to the closed blinds and the dark blue carpet but everything looks rather respectable and tidy.

Behind the desk sits a middle-aged woman with short gray hair and huge spectacles. She doesn't wear any make-up and is actually speaking on the phone but gesturing for Oliver to step closer, giving him a brief smile.

“Yeah, John, I understand. But we need the barn on Tuesday. - No, that was not what we agreed on. - Yes, I know, but we have a contract. - Then I will have to look for another location. Why not spare us both the hassle? - You know what, I'll talk to Doug and call you back, okay? - Good day.”

She forcefully puts the receiver down with a sigh before looking back up at Oliver.

“Hi! You look even better in person. Oliver Perlman, right? I'm Pam.” She offers him her hand which Oliver shakes. Her grip is firm.

“Trouble?” Oliver points at the phone.

Pam just shrugs. “The usual.” _'Whatever that means in this business,'_ Oliver thinks.

Stepping out from behind her desk Pam looks him up and down. “Wow.”

Oliver feels his face heat up. This is kinda weird, even if this woman seems nice. “So, how is this going to work...?” He asks, looking around, wondering if he's the only person invited today.

“Ah, yes, you’re new to this. We’re casting for a new film that starts to shoot on Tuesday – at least I hope so. We’re always looking for fresh... faces.” She smiles. “We already had a few men in today, and there will come a few later. We try to schedule the auditions so the candidates don't have to meet. For privacy. Most men don't want to look at their competitors.” Her smile becomes a knowing smirk.

Oliver nods. He has no idea what to do with his hands so he stuffs them in the backpockets of his jeans.

“Are you gay?”

The question makes him almost jump. “I'm married.” He answers, surprised by his own truthfulness.

Pam nods. “Gay for pay then. We have quite a few of you. Usually tops.”

What’s he supposed to say to this? Is this what passes for small talk in this industry? But Pam doesn't seem to expect an answer.

“How did you hear about this? Us?” She asks instead.

_'Now',_ Oliver thinks. _'This is my chance.'_ “I know Elio Perlman.”

Pam doesn't seem surprised but appears rather vindicated. “Ah, yeah, that explains it. Are you related?”

Oliver just hesitates a second. “He's my... cousin. From Europe. I'm from the American branch of the family.”

“Yeah, I saw your number is from New York. You came a long way.” Oliver senses a shrewdness in her words that makes him a little uneasy, as if a teacher did call him out on a lame excuse for skiving.

So he just smiles back at her, trying to charm himself into her good books. “Have you seen him lately?”

Pam turns and starts to walk towards the back of the building, motioning for Oliver to follow her. Over her shoulder she says: “Yeah, he was just in an hour ago, picking up his call sheet. He got a little funny when he saw your photo. Said he might come around later to watch your audition. But he didn't mention you were family.”

Is there doubt in her voice?

“There's some friction between him and his parents, so relatives might be an off topic right now.” It's the truth. It feels much easier to stick with the facts. Especially now that he knows Elio is aware of his visit. He just missed him! Why didn't he come sooner and watch Hammer Films, laying in waiting? He could kick himself.

Wait, and what does it mean that Elio wants to watch his audition?

Oliver has just a little time to wonder as Pam leads him down a corridor until she opens a door to her right. The room looks like a normal bedroom. “You can undress here. There's a robe for you. Doug will come and get you in a few minutes. Good luck.” Pam smiles surprisingly warm at him and leaves.

Suddenly alone, Oliver feels trapped, helpless. His dormant fear threatens to overwhelm him, bordering on panic. This is getting too real. Will he seriously take his clothes off and walk out there, presumably into some sort of studio, naked? Maybe he will even have to perform sexual acts in front of a camera?

What the hell had he been thinking? This is madness. Samuel and Annella surely wouldn't want him doing _this_ to find Elio.

Why doesn't he just leave a message for him with Pam and asks her to pass it on?

Yeah, that’s what he’ll do.

He needs to get out of here.

But just as he reaches for the handle, the door is flung open and a bundle of fury storms into the room. Elio. Oliver is so startled he takes a few steps back, stumbling onto the bed behind him. Elio slams the door shut and with a few strides towers over Oliver.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He barks, a vein swelling on his forehead.

“Hello, Elio,” is all Oliver can say, staring up at Elio's angry face. He's last seen him over two years ago – okay, and on film in between - but in reality, Elio looks... more mature; yet also gaunt, tired, despite his obvious rage. His eyes are wide and dark with an unfocused glassiness to them.

“Hello, Oliver. Nice to meet you.” Elio hisses in reply, his voice dropping to just above an acerbic whisper. “Now, fuck off!” His hands are balled into fists, his knuckles white.

“Elio, please-”

“No! I'm not listening. Just get your ass out of here now or I'll tell Pam to call the cops on you!”

Oliver knows he needs to calm him down if his journey is to be completed successfully. “Okay, okay. I'm leaving. But please, we have to talk.”

“No, we don't.” Elio takes a few steps back and opens the door again, gesturing for Oliver to walk out. Only, on the other side of the door stands a large man in his sixties, bald, with horn-rimmed glasses and a short gray beard. He stares at them both a little confused.

“Tim, what's going on here?” He doesn’t wait for an answer though, extending his hand to Oliver. “You must be the next guy, right? Oliver Perlman, I presume?”

Elio snorts a laugh but seems a little deflated by the man's presence.

“Yes, hello.” Oliver takes the offered hand, unsure what else to do.

“Sorry, Doug, I think there's been a mistake. Oliver here-” Elio starts.

“I'm sorry, I was just leaving. This is really not-” Oliver says at the same time.

They both fall silent before finishing their sentences, looking at each other, a bit lost how to proceed.

Doug releases Oliver's hand and smiles broadly. “Cold feet, eh? You wouldn't be the first. But look at you. What a waste.” He steps into the room that suddenly seems way too small for three people. Elio's eyes flick from one to the other before he lowers them to the floor.

The stretching silence hums with tension.

“Do you two know each other?” Doug asks. Now Oliver averts his gaze too.

“Kinda...” Elio says eventually.

“They're cousins.” Pam is standing in the corridor, a clipboard pressed to her chest. She gives their little group a mildly bewildered look. Elio laughs again; it's a shrill, ugly sound.

“Ah, okay. Listen, Tim, why don't you wait with Pam in front while I talk to Oliver here for a minute, okay?” It somehow sounds like an order despite Doug's soft voice.

Elio licks his lips and seems on the verge of protesting but in the end just shrugs. Oliver can see that he wants to say something but is biting his tongue. Instead, he leaves with Pam while Doug closes the door behind them.

“Hello, I'm Doug Hammer, owner of Hammer Films. You've already met my wife Pam.”

Oliver can do nothing but nod.

“Was this Tim's idea?” 

It irritates Oliver that the man keeps calling Elio by his stage name.

“Yeah, kinda...,” he huffs.

“So, you need a job and your cousin helped you out? But now it seems this is not really your scene?” Doug looks him up and down again and Oliver wants the ground to swallow him whole which is rather difficult if you are 6’5.

He flinches a little when Doug puts a hand on his shoulder. “Well, let me tell you, it wasn't my scene either. But there's good money in it. We're all professionals. We offer contracts. I won't fuck you over. Not if you don't want me to.” Doug grins a little lopsided. Oliver can't decide if he likes or abhors him.

“Yeah, well... you know, this feels so... weird.” Oliver once again decides to tell the truth.

“I know, right. But now that you’re here, why don’t we try it? We can go easy. I could just take a few pictures of you?”

Oliver swallows. He knows Elio is with Pam right now but he has no idea how long he’ll wait. He has to get out of here quickly. But Doug is kind of blocking his escape and doesn't seem to be a man who readily takes no for an answer. Besides, if he just storms off that might cause a stir that will impede him and Elio having the conversation Oliver has hoped for.

The smoothest way seems just to comply, have a few pics taken, then say good-bye and leave with Elio to finally talk.

And if Oliver is honest with himself, he’s kind of curious now how this will go. He’s been offered a glimpse into Elio’s world, a world he’s come to guiltily appreciate over the past few weeks.

He swallows. “Okay, why not. Here?”

Doug's smile widens as he squeezes his shoulder once more. “No, in my studio. Just follow me.”

Walking down another corridor Oliver glances in the direction of the exit. He thinks he hears a low murmur but is not sure.

The studio at the back of the building is a large, bright room with sliding glass doors overlooking a pool. Two young men lounge naked in deckchairs, sunbathing. Oliver stares a little and thinks he recognizes them. 

He has to look away, blushing, feeling every inch like the voyeur he is.

In the meantime, Doug has switched on some lights and now positions him in front of a blue backdrop.

“Take your shirt off.”

Okay, here we go.

Oliver unbuttons his shirt with shaky fingers while Doug adjusts a camera on a tripod.

“Tell me a bit about yourself, Oliver. Relax. Where are you from?”

“New York.”

A flash lights up.

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

_Flash._

“Turn a little to the left. Yes. Flex your arms. Great. Why do you want to do this?”

“My wife left me. I need the money.” What a welcome cliché.

Doug chuckles. “Don't we all? Right, now, take your shoes and jeans off, please.”

Oliver hesitates a moment but then does as he's told, removing his jeans and sneakers, ending up just in his gray briefs and white socks.

“Leave the socks on. Turn around, look over your shoulder. Yes. That's it.”

_Flash._

“Face me, put your hands on your hips. Look firm. As if you are about to get very angry. Yes. Have you ever thought about growing a mustache?”

Oliver almost laughs. “No.” Claire hates facial hair in any form and besides, it would simply look too gay on Oliver. Which might be exactly the point here.

“I also think you would look great in leather. Do you work out? Body building?”

_Flash._

“Just a bit of running and weights.”

“I can see that. Splay your right hand over your stomach. Yeah, like this.”

_Flash._

Oliver starts to feel exposed and a little ridiculous.

Doug’s next direction doesn’t make it better. “Now, take your jocks off as well but keep your socks on.” His face is half-hidden behind the camera, watching but also with a filter of professionalism between them. 

Oliver closes his eyes, swallows, hooks his thumbs inside his waistband and pulls, bending down. When he’s naked, he keeps staring at a point on the far wall above Doug’s right shoulder, avoiding eye-contact.

Doug presses the trigger a few times, bathing the studio in bright lights, but says nothing.

Now Oliver has the distinct urge to bolt from the studio. This is too embarrassing. But then he remembers the things Elio does in front of a camera and feels equally like a coward and slightly turned on.

His cock stirs and Doug hums approvingly.

“Having fun?”

Oliver’s face is burning. This is more than just awkward. He’s standing naked in front of a stranger and somehow his stupid body finds it erotic. Is it the unusual vulnerability he’s experiencing, the somewhat sleazy surroundings, the anonymity of hiding behind an alias? He could be anyone here and do anything he wants without being judged. He feels very confused and mildly conflicted.

“I... sorry…,” he mumbles.

“Oh, don’t be. That’s what we're here for, isn’t it? Enjoy yourself a bit. You really are a looker. Manly. Handsome. Guys love that. And with a cock like that…”

_Flash._

Oliver forces his hands to abstain from covering himself.

As if Doug senses his impulse he says: “Hands behind your head. Smile. Yeah, come on, rake your fingers through your hair.”

Oliver still feels silly but not as violated or exploited as he'd imagined. That is until Doug asks him to take his cock in hand.

“What?”

“Come on, are you a shower or a grower?” Doug looks genuinely interested. It’s a bit like a visit to the doctor. To a very peculiar sort of doctor.

“I… uhm… I’m not… I don’t think…” Oliver is stuttering like a teenager.

Doug has mercy.

“Okay, maybe that’s too much for your first day. Thank you. Very nice. Why don't you go talk to Tim now. Let him explain a little what we do here. With your looks I can put you in any of my productions. If you want to. Just give me a call tomorrow if you’re interested, then we'll do a real screen test with one of the boys.”

Oliver just nods, already hopping on one feet as he's quickly dressing again.

“And those pictures?” He asks.

“Oh, they’re safe with me. Don’t worry. By the way, would you do scenes with Tim as well? I suddenly have an idea for a male version of ‘Tender Cousins’.”

_‘Oh god!’_ Oliver thinks before he remembers that he and Elio aren’t related for real. Then he remembers that Doug doesn’t know that and starts to feel slightly sick. This is enough. 

He just hums something vaguely affirmative and walks down the corridor back to reception.

To his surprise, Elio is still waiting with Pam. His hot anger seems to have evaporated but he still looks pensive and uneasy.

“Ah, there he is! Tim, why don't you two go have a drink and catch up, hm?” Pam suggest.

Oliver waits for Elio's reaction. After a moment, he gives him a curt nod.

Stepping outside into the still warm evening, Oliver sighs. It feels like he's suddenly able to breathe again. He looks at Elio who's already turned left and is walking down the street.

“Hey, where are we going?” Oliver asks, hurrying after him.

“There's a bar just round the corner. My girlfriend works there.”

“Your... girlfriend?” Of all the strange things that happened to Oliver today, hearing that Elio has a girlfriend is by far the strangest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Tumblr is getting weird I'm also on Dreamwidth now, also as [Isitandwonder](https://isitandwonder.dreamwidth.org/).  
> As I don't know how long my Tumblr account can stay active after December 17th I also suggest you subscribe to me or my fic(s) on here to ensure you get update notifications. Thank you!


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'You can't cross bridges that you've burned.'_
> 
>  
> 
> Angst ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for subscribing!  
> As I said before, I might be gone from tumblr next week so if you want to make sure you get notified about updates please subscribe!

They literally just round the corner where Elio walks into a large bar that seems to belong to some generic chain. The interior is made from mock oakwood paneling with too bright neon signs and prints of the Golden Gate Bridge decorating the walls - and of course smoking is forbidden. They have only Budweiser on tab while a blackboard offers Margaritas and house wine. Oliver shudders inwardly.

As it's still early for a Saturday night the venue is mostly empty; or that's because everything in here screams impersonal fakery. But it doesn't matter to Oliver – he doesn't care where they're going, as long as he gets to talk to Elio.

Behind the bar stands a young woman. She's tall and slender, wearing an orange t-shirt with the bar's logo printed on it. Her hair is done up in intricate thin braids.

“Ciao, amore.” Elio leans over the counter and pecks her on the mouth. She smiles. Oliver doubts that she's much older than Elio. “Donna, this is Oliver. Oliver, Donna.”

They shake hands. Hers feel rough. He grip is strong.

“What can I get you?” She asks. Her voice is deep and hoarse. Quite attractive.

“Just a coke for me.” Elio says and Oliver orders one as well. He doesn't even want to imagine how the house wine might taste.

They slide into a booth at the far back.

“She seems nice.” Oliver says, trying to open this difficult conversation with a compliment.

“Shut up, you've no idea.” All cordiality is wiped off Elio's face.

They sit in silence until a waitress brings their orders and Oliver has time to look at Elio for real. He's thin, with sunken cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. The washed-out gray t-shirt he wears over a whitish longsleeve bears the words ‘Hüsker Dü’ and hangs from his narrow shoulders as if a few sizes too large. He looks like a scarecrow in it. His earlobes are pierced with a couple of silver creoles (Oliver didn't recognize those in the movies). 

His long, spidery fingers drum on the tabletop until a girl places their drinks on orange coasters, accompanied by a small bowl of peanuts.

“Why are you here? How did you find me?” Elio asks eventually when the waitress has gone.

Oliver swallows, takes a sip of his coke. How much can he tell Elio?

“Your parents-” He isn't allowed to continue because Elio explodes.

“I knew it! I fucking knew it!” He's about to get up and Oliver reaches for him, grabbing his bony wrist.

“Elio, please-”

“Let go off me!”

“Elio-”

“No, seriously, I'm an adult. It's none of their business. They're just snobs, control freaks. They don't even know people like Donna. Everyone is rich and white and so damn intellectual in their circle it makes me sick!”

“Are you finished?” Oliver feels cold rage well up inside him. He knew Elio was a brat but this is a bit too much. He has to remind himself that Elio doesn't know how ill his father is. That's the only thing that prevents him from slapping the boy.

“No, I'm just starting!” But Elio sits back down again. “They just want me to follow their example but they're so repressed and backwards-”

“And what are you? You think you've seen it all, don't you, that you're an adult now, at what... nineteen?” Oliver can't stop himself from raising his voice. “Very mature, to just run away from college without telling anyone. Your mother is worried sick.” Elio has the nerve to roll his eyes. Oliver brings his fist down on the table, hard. Elio jumps.

_'Good, we are finally getting somewhere.'_

Oliver leans over the table right into Elio's space. “She called me. She cried. Your mother cried on the phone while speaking to me. You reduced this marvelous woman to tears. Are you very proud of yourself and how progressive you are? Do you really think your parents care for the color of your girlfriend's skin? They even accepted _me_ in your bed!”

“But you are one of them. And you're white!” Elio's face contorts into a fierce grimace.

“Elio, please...,” Oliver sighs. “Let's not do this. I don't know what happened to you.” What happened to the sweet, sensitive boy he knew back in Italy?

“What _happened_ to me? This fucking country happened to me! Have you watched the news recently? Nicaragua? El Salvadore? Have you tried to live here when you're not white? Experienced the harassment? The blatant racism? Do you know how often Donna is stopped by the police when driving to work? Do you know how the cops call her?”

“Elio, these things are awful, but please, why punish your parents for it?”

“Because they belong to the same blasé bourgeois establishment that lets it happen. They sit in their villas and discuss Gramsci over a dry Martini! And you're just one of them. So I had to cut ties and stop living off them.”

Oliver sighs again, shaking his head. He's heard many young students talk exactly like Elio. Usually, though, they don't throw away their parents support and their academic career. He sees the noble cause they fight for. It's not that Oliver has never experienced antisemitism, for example; he's been called some pretty insulting names as the odd Jew out. Nor is he ignoring what's happening, the rise of the conservative Reaganomics. Of course he wants a fairer world. But the way Elio talks feels unsettled and disturbed.

“Well, making porn movies will bring the capitalistic world order down, that's for sure.” He shouldn't have said that. Elio's face hardens.

“What do you know?” He spits out, staring him down.

“Nothing, Elio.” Oliver knows he has no right to intervene. It's Elio's life. Still... “Just, it seems such a waste of your talents...”

“See, you're thinking just like my parents. My talents, my gifts... I don't want to employ them to stabilize their fucking idea of a society built on exploitation and suppression.”

“Elio, please, just let me talk to you...”

“No, thanks, I've given you too much of my time already. I have more important things to do than listen to you criticize my lifestyle. Just fuck off. And tell my parents to do the same.”

He's already standing, moving for the door when Oliver takes hold of his arm again. “For god's sake, Elio, would you cut the crap and listen to me for a second? I don't care about your political agenda. Your father is ill. He's dying.”

Elio goes slack in his grip and just gapes at him, eyes wide. He visibly needs a moment to gather some strength. “What? You're lying. You're a fucking liar, Oliver. Always have been. You lied and lied. Just leave me alone. Just...” He untangles himself and basically runs off.

Donna stares after him while wiping the bar. Then she turns and looks at Oliver. Something seems to transpire between them, a silent understanding. With a nod of her head she indicates for him to move to the back, down a corridor running past the toilets and the kitchen where he finds an emergency exit. He pushes the heavy door open and stands in a dirty alley by the bins. A moment later Donna joins him there, already lighting a cigarette.

“Want one?” She offers.

“Yes, please.”

She eyes him up and down while passing a cigarette, squinting against the rising smoke.

“You're not from here.” She states.

“No, from New York.”

“Wow. Why did you come to this shithole? Because of him?”

Oliver nods. “His parents send me-”

“His parents? He told me they were dead. That little shit.” She laughs, shaking her head.

“Well, his dad is seriously ill. He wants to see him before...” Oliver can't say it.

“Shit.” Donna whispers, taking a deep drag. “Have you told him?”

“I tried but I don't think he believed me.”

“Maybe talk to him again?”

“I don't even know where he lives. I don't have his number.”

“He'll be at home with Malia. 1406 Harkins Road, apartment 102. If he's not in yet you can wait for him. I won't finish till eleven.” Her large brown eyes meet his. Oliver's suddenly glad that Elio found her.

“I have to get back to work.” She smiles at him as she stubs her cigarette out, turns and goes back inside. Oliver stares at the closed door for a moment before walking to his car.

He has to ask a few people for directions but eventually finds the nondescript apartment complex on the outskirts of Salinas. Apartment 102 is located on the first floor. He climbs the stairs and makes his way down a concrete walkway, dodging rubbish bags, drying racks and kids tricycles until he finds himself in front of a pale green door with the numbers 102 nailed to it.

He exhales, knocks, waits.

Nothing.

He knocks again.

He can hear music but it’s probably coming from the apartment next door.

He leans against the railing, looking over the deserted parking lot below. Fuck, he should have bought cigarettes. And something to drink. It’s still almost unbearably hot despite it’s nearly nine in the evening.

Oliver doesn’t have to wait long, though. He hears Elio's voice before he sees him. He’s talking to someone downstairs. A door is being closed and a minute later he emerges from the stairway on the first floor, a dark silhouette against the bright lights of the stairs.

Oliver stares into the dusk. It seems as if Elio is carrying something.

Someone.

As he comes closer Oliver can make out what it is: perched on his hip sits a little girl in a flowery dress, her head resting against Elio’s chest.

Oliver feels slightly overwhelmed by the sight.

Elio stops for a moment when he sees Oliver but then walks over to where he stands, pressing a finger to his lips as he approaches.

Because the little girl is asleep.

As he reaches the door Elio fumbles in his jeans pockets for his key, shifting the child slightly. She just sucks her thumb into her mouth but doesn’t wake up. Yet it’s difficult to find the lock in this position.

“Let me…” Oliver offers, and Elio passes him the key. He unlocks the door and holds it open.

There’s not even a corridor, they just enter what seems to be a living room. Elio moves his head to indicate for Oliver to walk inside while he turns to the left. As he opens another door Oliver gets a glimpse of a large unmade bed. Elio vanishes in the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him and the little girl.

Left alone, Oliver takes the chance to look around. The room holds a TV set, a battered couch, a playpen littered with stuffed animals and nothing else except huge canvasses painted in bright geometrical patterns leaning against the far wall between dirty windows. To the right is an open kitchen unit – not much more than a fridge, a stove and a sink.

Oliver dares to open the fridge. Inside he finds a bottle of milk, a few oranges and some boxes from a Chinese restaurant.

He’s just about to start looking for glasses to pour himself some water from the tab when he hears a door open and softly close again. As he turns around, Elio is standing in the living room, switching on the overhead neon tube. He looks even more sickly in the cold bright light.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, yet he doesn’t seem angry anymore, just tired and worn out.

“Donna told me where to find you. Is that…” Oliver nods towards the closed bedroom door.

“That’s Malia. Donna’s daughter.”

“But not yours.”

Elio snorts. “Jesus, Oliver, do your maths. She’s eighteen months. I just finished school when she was born.”

Oliver feels relief wash over him.

“Where did you meet, you and Donna?”

“Why? It’s none of your business.” Elio stems his fists into his sides, looking suddenly pensive.

And he’s right. Of course he is. Oliver isn’t really sure he wants to know details about Elio’s life. Who knows what he might get himself into?

“Can I have a glass of water, please?” He asks instead, sure that Elio wouldn’t offer him one of his own account.

“Yeah.” Elio nods and walks over to the sink, getting a cracked mug from a cupboard. At least it looks clean.

Oliver empties it greedily. The water is tepid and tastes faintly of chlorine.

“God, how can you stand the heat here?” He sighs.

“Well, it’s not that different from Italy.” Elio shrugs, leaning back against the fridge, crossing his arms over his chest.

_‘But there you had Mafalda and her homemade lemonade and apricot juice.’_ Oliver thinks. Why did Elio exchange that life for this – living with a single mother in a run-down apartment, shooting porn movies?

Oliver puts his mug down. Suddenly everything feels bleak and depressing.

“Thanks.”

Elio just nods. They stare at each other. The only sound in the room is the humming of the neon light.

“Are these yours?” Oliver points over to the large paintings just to say something.

“No, Donna’s. She wants to go to art school in San Francisco when Malia is older and we've saved some money.”

Oliver nods, plays with his mug, turning it left and right.

Eventually, Elio asks again: “How did you find me?”

Oliver has dreaded that question. But he’s too exhausted to lie.

“I saw you in a movie.”

Elio doesn’t blush. He snorts. “ _You_ saw _me_ in a movie? Which one?”

The situation is too absurd to be coy. “The first one was that film set in the Italian boarding school.” Oliver can’t suppress a grin either.

“Oh that… yeah. Wait, the _first_ one?” There’s a mischievous glint in Elio’s eyes.

Oliver coughs. “I got some others as well, afterwards.” He holds Elio’s gaze. They are past excuses. At least Oliver hopes so. He still thinks they know each other better than anyone else.

Elio puts his hand beneath his chin, a gesture eerily familiar, last seen in another time, another place. “What do you think?” He asks, losing a bit of his former bravado.

“Well, I’m not here to judge.” But is that true?

“Do my parents know?” There’s a tremor in Elio’s voice, a chink in his armor, betraying his nonchalance.

Oliver shakes his head. “No.”

“Then how…?” Elio walks over to the sofa and flops down on it. Oliver follows but sits a few feet away.

“Just coincidence. I saw a few of your movies, then your parents rang me with… the news.”

Elio just stares down at the linoleum. It looks surprisingly clean.

“They’ve been looking for you since the summer, calling your friends, your college… Elio, they're frightened. Just let them know you're okay.”

There’s a long silence.

“What you said… about Papa… is that true? Or are you just trying to guilt-trip me into contacting them?”

Oliver rakes a hand through his sweaty hair. Everything feels sticky.

“It’s what he told me. A brain tumor. The doctors are giving him till Christmas.”

Elio makes a strangled sound and sacks forward, burying his face in his hands. Instinctively, Oliver reaches over and starts to stroke his back. Elio lets him. Oliver can feel the nobs of his spine through the two layers of cotton. How can the boy bear to wear so many clothes in this climate?

“Just call them, see how it goes, okay? Whatever went on between you, just leave it aside for a while.”

Instead of answering, Elio just falls to the side, pulling his knees up against his chest, his long, thin arms hugging his shins. After a moment, he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

“You won’t tell them… what I do?” His voice is small.

“As you said, it’s none of my business.” Oliver is now massaging Elio’s wiry upper arm, the only part of him he can reach without coming closer. It feels strange to touch him. Good, but strange. Elio allowing this intimacy makes him bold. “But can I ask you why? Why are you doing this?”

“The movies, you mean?” Elio sounds very young. Oliver is reminded that he’s just nineteen. “Well, I need the money for Donna and Malia…”

“Yeah, but you could make money in other ways.”

“Not that much, not that quick. Doug pays good. He treats me fair.” Oliver wonders how much experience Elio has in the business to be able to make these assumptions.

“Does Donna know?”

“Sort of. She thinks it’s just pictures for magazines and stuff. She doesn't mind.”

“But she doesn’t know that you’re having sex with men?”

Elio just shakes his head.

“Would she mind?”

Now he shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe. But it’s only temporarily, so why bother and upset her?”

“You think so?” Oliver isn’t sure if he’s talking about the films Elio does or if he’s angling for a more profound admission. Regarding them. What they had, back in Italy. How Elio felt, feels.

Elio snuffles. “Well, it’s not that awful, actually. The guys working for Doug all look… nice, fit. They’re clean, you know… he makes sure of that, doesn’t work with actors doing hard drugs and stuff. Not with escorts either. You have to be careful nowadays.”

“Yeah, that’s good. But… do you like what you’re doing?”

Elio looks at him for almost a minute: “You auditioned today, didn’t you?” He sits up suddenly, his eyes glued to Oliver. “How did that feel?”

Oliver thinks back to his few minutes of nudity. “Not that bad. A little weird. Like stripping at the doctors to show a rather embarrassing rash or something…”

Elio cocks his head. “Did you feel nothing else? Didn’t you feel special, beautiful, desired?”

“No-o. It was kinda exciting, but, as I said, I mostly felt just a little silly.” That's not entirely true but he won't tell Elio that he got turned on. Its just too pathetic.

“Well, I suppose when you look like a Greek god it’s different. But, for me, it’s… I don’t really like myself when I look in the mirror, you know. But in front of a camera I feel adored, seen, desired. I like the idea that strangers jerk off to me, my body and what I do with it.” He looks away after that confession as if he’s said too much.

Oliver frowns. He didn’t know Elio felt like this about himself. “I always thought you were special and beautiful,” he says without thinking.

“Yeah, but not beautiful enough for you to stay. Not special enough to be honest with me.” There’s a trace of bitterness in Elio’s tone. It hurts. Oliver wants to explain. He’s had this conversation over and over in his head for the past two years. It’s time to say what he has to say.

“Elio, listen-“

But Elio just raises a hand to quieten him. “Just… don’t, okay? Let’s not start with this. It’s over. You’re fine. I’m fine.” Elio tries to smile but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It was just a summer fling. We were both looking for… something, I guess. But it’s over. You don’t really knew me then and you don’t know me now.”

Disappointment washes over Oliver like a cold tide. He’d rehearsed this speech many times. He knows his reasons make sense. If Elio would only listen, let him explain, then he must understand…

“Elio, I really want to-“

“No!” Elio yells, his voice too loud in the almost empty room. Afterwards, they both anxiously listen for the baby to start crying but all stays quiet.

“Elio, I want to make amends. I want to help you.” Oliver whispers into the silence.

“What makes you think I need help?” Elio’s tone is sharp but he keeps his voice low.

“For god’s sake!” Oliver hisses. That kid drives him crazy. “You threw away a perfect opportunity for a great education and career – for what? This?” Oliver gestures around the squalid apartment. “Bringing up someone else’s child, taking it up the ass to make some money? I saw you being tied up and whipped and… hurting in those films. You think the men getting off to it think you’re beautiful? No, Elio, they think you're a whore, a worthless fucktart to be used.”

He knows he’s made a terrible mistake when he shuts his mouth. Elio’s face has gone white as a sheet, his eyes dark and burning with fury. “You should know as you are one of them, aren’t you, Oliver? A married man who jerks off to watching me getting it good and hard. Does it turn you on? I bet it does. I also bet your wife has no idea what really gets you going. I could give her a few tips if you like. Thankfully, you left your number with Pam.”

Oliver lungs for him now, jumping up with a roar. His fist hits Elio’s left cheekbone and he's thrown backwards into the sofa before crashing onto the floor.

Now the baby starts wailing.

Blood is spilling from Elio’s nose and Oliver is reminded of another incident like this, taking place after a lavish dinner at an Italian villa, the air filled with the sweet scents of summer. Their feet had been engaged in an elaborate dance under the table until the blood had shot from Elio’s freckled nose. Two years ago there had been a damask napkin to catch the crimson rivulets. Now they stain Elio’s threadbare t-shirt.

“Fuck off!” Elio whispers, staring at his bloodied fingers. Oliver wants to reach for a tea towel but there are none.

“Elio, I’m sorry… I didn’t meant to… It’s not like…” He’s rambling. The baby’s shrieking by now, loud and frantic.

“Just go… you already did enough damage, Oliver. Go.” Elio wipes his hand on his jeans, gets up and walks over into the bedroom, making shushing noises as he closes the door. Oliver is left behind with his guilt and desperation.

He just wanted to help. How did it all go so wrong?

He can hear Elio sing softly on the other side of the wall. It's an Italian song.

_'Ciagneva sempe cadurmeva sola,_  
_no dorme co'li muorte accompagnata'_

The child sounds already calmer.

Oliver suddenly understands that there is no room for him in Elio’s life. There’s nothing left between them but regret and indifference. Whatever bond he thought they might still have – it’s been cut tonight.

He doesn’t know this young man Elio has become. It low-key angers him that he doesn’t seem to want or need Oliver’s help, that he seems content in his circumstances, even if Oliver can’t understand why.

It makes him feel tired and empty.

He did what Elio’s parents wanted. He found their son. He makes a promise to himself to give them this address shouldn’t he hear from them over the next week with the news that Elio called.

That’s all there is to do for him now.

He has his own life back in New York. A promising career. And a wife he really should talk to.

He puts his palm against the thin door behind which he can still hear Elio’s voice, whispers “We had the stars, you and I”, and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a short musical digression: Hüsker Dü started out as a hardcore punk band and developed into what might be called alternative rock. Basically, they did what Nirvana did – only ten years prior (even Nirvana said so). When Grant Hart and Bob Mould got outed mid-80s it sent shockwaves through the indie scene; because, don't be fooled, (punk) rock music was and is a very heteronormative world. This kind of coincided with the band – as one of the first indie bands – signing on with a major label, producing Candy Apple Grey, one of my favorite records of all time.  
> Grant Hart became a somewhat tragic figure; despite his huge talent as a songwriter, he never quite made it and died in 2017 of cancer and Hepatitis C, aged just 56.  
> There's an interesting interview with Bob Mould about his closeted self-hate: https://www.highroadtouring.com/bob-mould-looks-back-on-his-closeted-self-hating-days-and-husker-dus-legacy/


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver starts to sort out his life - somewhat...

The Perlmans call Oliver three days later when he's back in New York. They sound relieved and grateful. Elio rang them that very morning. They now know that he lives with his girlfriend and her daughter near LA and that they both want to attend art school next year.

Especially Elio's dad is happy for him. “Imagine, a bambini! I never thought...” 

They are currently sorting out a visit.

Oliver's glad things seem to work out for them, glad that Elio reached out to his family after all. So his trip had not been totally in vain. He has at least accomplished what he set out to do.

Then why does he feel like a total failure?

When he asks about Samuel he sounds tired and evasive. But Annella seems in much better spirits than during their previous conversation. Sometimes hope is all there is and we have to concentrate on the little things to get through, one day after another, Oliver thinks.

When he came home on Sunday, some of Claire's clothes and books had been gone. She'd left a note for him, telling him that she was staying with a friend for a while. She needed time. She asked him not to contact her at the University department.

Which he doesn't.

His days blur as he develops a routine: He jogs in the morning. Goes to work. Comes home. Watches one of Elio's movies.

_“Smoking Hot”_ has been waiting for him. And damn it, but that title hits the nail on the head. Elio is slowly playing with himself in that video, stroking his cock, fingering his hole, smoking through it all, one cigarette after another. It's a fetish Oliver didn't know he had; it makes him desperate for a cigarette (Claire has banned them) and he would have lighted up if his hands hadn't been busy otherwise, trying to match what Elio is doing to himself.

This film seems different, much more intimate, as if it's just between Elio and him. The noises he makes as he has two fingers inside himself, kneeling on a leather couch, his quivering back turned towards the camera, leave Oliver panting open-mouthed and literally drooling.

He remembers his scent. The taste of his sweat, his cum. The feel of his hot, damp skin.

The little peach tattooed onto Elio's ass cheek dances before Oliver's eyes as the muscles beneath the inked skin contract and relax. Oliver wants to lick it.

No, he wants to bite it.

Afterwards, he needs a scotch. Or two. Because he knows what he does is wrong. He's ashamed of himself. But he can't stop. 

He's hoped that they could at least be friends. Maybe he'd even wanted more, in a very vague, half-baked way? But their meeting had exposed the harsh, cold truth: Elio loathes him.

So all Oliver has left are those films he hates to love watching.

It feels like his life has become a downward spiral, slowly falling apart while he sits back, looking on, losing everything that has been dear to him, unable to intervene. Like in a nightmare where you run after someone, never catching them.

Why would any sane person seek refuge in such apathy? Why doesn't he care?

The worst might be that he has no one to talk to about it; no one who asks if he's okay. No one who calls him out on his shit. It reminds him of the time immediately after Italy. Only, back then, he had Claire to take his mind off things (though of course they never spoke about what had happened). She'd kept him busy and had offered a guilt-free outlet for some sexual desires.

He had been able to cope, to suppress his fears, insecurities, doubts; his true feelings. It had been so much easier to just pick up where they'd left before he'd gone to Europe and to ignore the things he'd learned about himself while he'd been with Elio.

Italy had been an escape but Oliver had never intended for his temporary refuge to become anything more. His weeks in B. should have been his last adventure before settling down.

A respectable professor. Married.

But sadly life doesn't seem to work that way.

It has been simmering inside him ever since, that feeling of 'not enough', of missing something essential. Though he had been too much of a coward to face it.

He had felt so alone with his traitorous desires, wishing for the wrong thing while the right one lay in bed beside him. The longing for something more, someone else had eaten him alive.

He's always known that it would end in disaster.

So now he's just reaping what he sowed.

There's just one hazy silver lining during these weeks. The calls start soon after his return from California. They usually come in the middle of the night though Oliver is rarely asleep. Someone's breathing down the line but never says a single word.

Oliver knows he should feel annoyed or threatened. But he doesn't. Those phone calls seem to be another lonely, sleepless soul reaching out to him.

Sometimes Oliver talks into the ether, tells the person about his day, about things he saw or overheard on the subway, what he had for dinner, the weather. Nothing too personal, just little observations and snippets from his life.

It makes him feel better.

How sad and lonely must he be to confide in a creepy stranger?

Time goes by. It gets colder, darker outside. Oliver holes up alone over Thanksgiving, ignoring invitations, letters, deleting the messages on his answer phone without listening to them.

The only call he makes is long distance, to Italy, on Saturday, December 14th.

“Happy Hanukkah!” Both Samuel and Annella shout down the line.

Oliver grins.

“Happy Hanukkah, Perlmans! How are you!”

“Fine!” Annella sounds like she used to, vibrant and cheerful.

“Yes, much better, Oliver.” And it's true, Samuel's voice is stronger. “I'm undergoing some experimental treatment in Milan that really seems to work. And there's a doctor in Rome, a friend of a colleague, who might dare to perform surgery after all.”

“That's good news!” Oliver feels as if a heavy weight fell from his shoulders.

“Therefore, we are choosing once again a new you for next summer.”

“Oh, are you? That's great.”

_Oh, the memories..._

“But nothing compares to you.” Annella chirps.

“Stop flattering me.”

“Or what?”

“Or I might book the next flight over to see you guys.” There's suddenly a lump in his throat.

“That would be the best thing, Oliver.” Samuel assures him before he breaks out into a coughing fit. “Sorry, I have to lie down for a bit.”

Oliver hears some muffled noises, then Annella is back on the phone.

“You can't imagine who arrived last night?” Her voice is full of excitement.

“No, who?” He doesn't want to spoil her surprise though he has a pretty good idea.

“Elio! I'm so, so happy.”

“Oh, that's great. Really. How is he? How's he taking it?”

Annella needs a moment to answer. “He's very tired. The jet lag. He's also very thin. Mafalda will have to feed him up. He was never very good to look after himself. We spoiled him. But we are just so glad he made it over here.”

Oliver assumes that neither Donna nor Malia have accompanied Elio but he doesn't ask.

“Can I... can I speak to him?” He just wants to apologize for everything that happened in Salinas.

There's another silence, longer this time. “He's still asleep, I'm afraid... the time difference. He might have a cold coming on as well, change of weather and all, he looked a little ill…” Annella trails off.

Oliver gets the hint. “Of course. Tell him I... just tell him happy Hanukkah from me, will you?” The lump in his throat is back. He might get a cold as well.

“Of course.”

“How long will he stay?”

“Until into the new year.”

“Okay, that’s good. Love you, guys.”

“Give my love to Claire.”

“Yeah... yeah, sure.”

They hang up. Oliver doesn't care that it's early, he opens a bottle of scotch.

The next day he’s meeting Claire for the first time since she left their apartment that fateful evening almost two months ago. They’ve talked on the phone a few times since, Claire being the one to call him eventually at the University, but they haven’t seen each other face to face for weeks. They’ve both successfully dodged questions from their parents as well as invitations for Thanksgiving and Hanukkah, claiming each a huge workload that made traveling to Vermont or Chicago impossible. But this can’t go on forever.

“I think they suspect I’m pregnant,” Claire opens the conversation, smiling a little cheekily after Oliver has said hello and ordered a water in the little coffee shop Claire has chosen, “and that’s the reason we’re not coming over.” She falls silent and stirs her tea. “But that’s not gonna happen, is it?”

She looks good today, Oliver has to admit, wearing a light-blue cashmere turtleneck and a matching woolen skirt. She smells nice, too – the typical Claire scent mixed of apple shampoo, fresh laundry and just a hint of ‘Roma’ (Oliver knows because he bought it for her birthday).

He takes a sip of water, watching her over the rim of his glass, then shakes his head.

“I don’t know, Claire. I just don’t.”

“Well, I gave you time.”

A few weeks, he wants to say. As if that’s enough to sort out a whole lifetime of denial, self-loathing and pretending. Yet he knows she’s been more generous than other wives would have been.

“Yeah, you did. But it’s complicated.”

“How do you think I feel, Oliver?” She looks him straight in the face.

If he’s honest, he hadn’t given her much thought over the past few weeks at all. He was preoccupied with someone else. And isn't that a sign that he's already made his decision?

“I’m really sorry but… this won’t just go away, Claire.” He sighs. “I tried. I really did. I… god, I love you-“

“And I love you!” She takes his hand into her soft palm, her thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of his hand. But then she frowns.

He’s forgotten his ring in that cheap motel in Salinas and only realized when back in New York. He still hadn't found the time to call the place and ask if they could send it over. Maybe one of the staff took it anyway… he can’t even be angry.

Claire swallows before she continues. “We’ve known each other for a long time, Oliver. And we both decided to build a life together. Do you really want to throw all that away because of something that… might just be a phase?”

“It’s not a phase, Claire.” He says softly.

“Well, maybe it isn’t. But we're a good team, Oliver, you can’t deny that. We fit. Everyone says so.” Her eyes are big and shiny. “I would be prepared to live with your… tendencies. I mean, I did live with them for years, didn’t I? Unknowingly.” There’s a faint hint of bitter amusement in her tone. Oliver can’t blame her. “Would it really be so much different, now that I know?”

“You tell me.”

She looks down at the table, at their joined hands. “Maybe not. Maybe I could even allow you to have… this… outlet… those... videos,” she’s blushing, bright red spots forming on her pale cheeks. “As long as you don’t take it further… try to consummate it…” She makes a strangled sound as if choking on her own words before she stares him right in the eyes. “Have you ever…?”

Oliver's suffering just watching her talk about these things she obviously abhors. Should he tell the truth? Could she deal with it? Does he owe it to her, to make her truly understand what’s going on?

“Yes.” He says, burning another bridge. “But it was before our marriage. When we were off.”

She pulls her hand back and nods, briefly closing her eyes.

“Can you promise me you’ve been… careful? You know what I mean?”

He knows. And he can’t. He and Elio never used any protection. He usually refuses to think about it or the consequences their actions might have had. It’s been two years. If either of them had it, he’d be dead by now.

“I’m healthy, Claire.”

“How do you know?” She shoots back.

“Believe me. There’s been no one but you for over two years.”

She sits up a little straighter. “Two years… when we were off… Did it happen in Italy?”

He nods.

“With a… prostitute?”

He can’t do that to Elio. Not after Salinas.

“No. It was someone I knew back then. Someone I liked. Cared about. But I left him to be with you.” And hadn’t that been one of the biggest mistakes in his life, he suddenly thinks?

“Cared about?” She raises an eyebrow, then clasps a hand over her mouth. “Are you telling me you… fell in love in Italy… with a man? But then came home to marry me?” She sounds incredulous, as if she’s never heard anything more hilarious and vile in her whole life.

He shrugs. He surely fell for Elio back then. But had it been love? That’s such a big word…

Claire goes on, taking his silence for an answer nonetheless: “Listen, I’m willing to tolerate your… carnal desires, as long as you’ll never mention them to me again, never make me see such filth again, and, most important, as long as they stay just that – desires. Because feelings of love, companionship, affection do only exist between a man and a woman, in a union destined to uphold universal values, to procreate, but certainly not between two men. If that's what you believe you are demeaning our marriage in a way unacceptable to me and everyone we know.”

Oliver feels as if someone slapped him. “The old Greeks would disagree with you.” He bites out.

“Well, too bad.”

Oliver leans back, crosses his arms over his chest and stares at her, taking everything in. She looks so prim and sweet, clean and proper. He thought he knew her. He thought she was intelligent and compassionate, even if a little pragmatic.

Now he feels as if she’s a complete stranger.

And he knows in this moment that she’ll never be able to understand him. Staying with her would mean living a lie. For the rest of his life. A coma.

“Yes, too bad.” He answers, well aware of the finality of his words.

Now it’s for Claire to look shocked. But she quickly catches herself.

“If that’s the case, I want you out of the apartment by the end of the year. I’ve played it nice but my parents paid for it and I can’t stay with Greta forever.”

Oliver nods. It’s only fair, he thinks. He doesn’t really care about money, furniture, or the fucking apartment.

“And I’ll have to tell my parents. That we are taking a break.”

“I’ll tell mine we separated.” Now that it’s decided Oliver feels almost elated. He searches for a pang of sadness inside him but there’s… nothing.

“Whatever.” Claire huffs and gets up, leaving him to settle the bill. “Tell me when you’re moving.” She rushes out the door into the cold December afternoon.

Oliver feels that, after this encounter, he's earned himself a treat. And as he's just a few blocks away from 'Blue Men' he decides to pay it a visit.

They have Elio's – no, Tim's – latest film available. _"Bar(n)ely Legal"_. It's apparently set in a … barn. Elio gets fucked by a farmer and his rough farmhands in a pile of straw. That must be the movie he was about to shoot when Oliver visited him.

Oliver could have been one of the guys who fucked Elio/Tim.

Go figure!

The man behind the counter greets him warmly. He seems even thinner, wearing a bright green turtleneck with little white reindeers on it today. Oliver notices that he's sniveling and that his voice sounds raspy. When he remarks on it the clerk tells him he has a cold coming on.

“I feel like shit, man, but what can you do? Now is the busiest time of the year.”

They wish each other happy holidays. Oliver gets his new video gift wrapped, with a candy cane in the shape of a penis attached to it.

It makes him smile.

At home, he goes straight to bed. He's put the TV set plus VCR up in the bedroom a few weeks ago so he can watch his porn more comfortably. Living alone has its perks.

Elio looks a little worse for wear in the video. There are not many close-ups of his face, presumably because someone punched him only a few days prior to filming. Oliver still feels bad about it. He's usually not violent. But that night he'd been on edge.

The almost invisible bruise to Elio's face makes him feel as if he's present in the scenes as well, despite never calling Doug back. It's weird; but underneath the shame he experiences arousal.

Especially as Elio's taking it and taking it, the focus on his ass as he's roughly fucked by five men in a row, begging for it until cum trickles form his abused hole while he's kneeling in a pile of straw. They call him a dirty pig and tell him they'll bread him and Oliver feels himself throb at their filthy, degrading humiliations.

It's raw and dirty and Oliver gets off to it but the orgasm feels slightly muted, subdued. He can't feel the same bliss as … before. Maybe because he now knows a bit better how these things are made?

In the end, he opens another bottle of scotch and passes out in a drunken stupor.

The next day, he calls his colleague Peter who has a friend, a woman named Esther, searching for a temporary tenant renting her flat for the six months she'll stay in France, teaching. Peter has mentioned it on a faculty meeting last week.

Luckily, the apartment is still available.

The anonymous calls have stopped, Oliver realizes as Christmas approaches. When he lies awake at night he suddenly feels isolated, like the last man on earth. Once or twice he thinks about going cruising. He longs for another human being, to be touched. But in the end he doesn't dare and entertains himself with his videos, despite a growing sense of unease when watching them.

Esther leaves for Paris two days before Christmas and that's when Oliver moves into her apartment in the Village. All the possessions he deems worth taking with him – books, clothes, the photo album from Italy (1983) and his videos – fit into two large boxes and a leather holdall.

That's apparently everything of significance he has accumulated in his 26 years on this earth.

As he's not celebrating the holidays he's bored out of his mind. On Christmas Eve he goes to the cinema, watching _'Out of Africa'_. It doesn't raise his spirits.

On Christmas day, he calls Italy again.

“Oh, Oliver, it's so good of you to get in touch!” Annella sounds grateful. “We called the other day because we have some news but we only reached Claire and... well...” She falls silent.

“Yeah, we separated. I'm actually calling to tell you. And to give you my new number and address.”

“You moved out already? I'm so sorry to hear that.” Annella sounds truly sad. Shouldn't she know better? “Of course, these things happen sometimes. But maybe it's just a rough patch you're going through?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Oliver doesn't want to talk about it, not to Elio's mum. To distract her he asks: “So, what are your big news?”

“Oh, Oliver, can you believe it? Samuel went to the specialist in Rome and he says he'll operate on him. And that there are good chances for him to fully recover. It might take some time, he might have to relearn how to walk and talk and write but he'll live. I'm so grateful!” She sounds like she's crying again, but this time with joy.

“That's brilliant!” It's the best thing he's heard in months. Samuel might live!

“He'll go to hospital tomorrow. They won't wait. Elio and I will travel with him to Rome. I'm so glad he's with us right now. He's been such a huge support for me.”

“Yes, I can imagine. Can I talk to him for a minute, please?”

“To Elio?” There's a short silence. “I'm afraid he's not in. He went over to Vimini's parents because today is the anniversary. That poor, poor girl.”

Oliver remembers Vimini with an acute ache of loss and sadness. She'd been brilliant, shrewd, funny. His friend. Yet she died a year ago, way too young. He remembers finding the death notice in the post after he returned from a delayed honeymoon with Claire in February.

So many things have changed since then.

“I'm sorry. Can you tell him I called? And please, keep me posted on Samuel.”

“Of course. I would put him on but he's asleep right now.”

“Yeah, sure.” Oliver leaves his number and new address in Greenwich Village before they hang up. He spends the rest of the day looking at his photos from Italy and rereads Vimini's letters he keeps folded at the back of the photo album – all 23 of them.

Among them he also finds a couple of postcards. One is a reproduction of Monet's berm he took from Elio's room in B. On the back someone called Maynard has written _'Think of me sometimes'_ beneath some bleached lines of cursive script. The other shows a bearded Mithraic figure. He and Elio both bought the same one when visiting San Clemente while staying in Rome.

Rome.

Will Elio visit Santa Maria dell' Anima when he returns there tomorrow? Probably not. His father is seriously ill, his thoughts will be somewhere else.

But Oliver can't forget. He remembers everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I'm not a monster. As Christmas is approaching I'm giving Samuel a miracle.
> 
> 'Smoking Hot' is based on a video featuring Ayden James.
> 
> On a personal note: I (almost) never cry - except when I watch Out of Africa.
> 
> Merry Christmas to you if you are celebrating. If not, happy holidays. And a magical winter solstice to everyone!
> 
> I'm on vacation the next two weeks. That means I have time to write. So maaayyybeee I might update more often than once a week as a Christmas present to my lovely readers...


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet again. Please don't be mad at me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra update because it's Christmas where I live!
> 
> This is especially for Morna who's ill with flu, for Tequilatuesdays so she can relax (or not) and Beyondbakerstreet as a little extra for the holidays!

Oliver only hears from Italy again on New Years Day. He's still hungover when the phone rings, despite having celebrated all by himself – and a bottle of Vodka for a change.

Apparently, the Perlmans are still in Rome. Samuel is recovering from the operation but it takes time. He's too weak to go back home just yet.

The doctors have been able to remove the entire tumor without destroying too much brain matter.

He recognized Annella and Elio after coming out of surgery. He can form basic sentences but needs to relearn both to walk and huge chunks of vocabulary. His English, Latin, Greek and Hebrew are gone completely.

“But he's alive.” Annella sounds so relieved that her attitude convinces Oliver all will be well.

“How's Elio coping?”

Annella sighs. “It's hard for him, seeing his father like this. I think I'll send him back to the US soon. This hasn't been easy for him. He's still so young. He needs to get on with his own life. Without all this sickness and suffering around him.”

Oliver agrees. “Does he have any plans?”

“There's this art school in San Francisco. But I'm afraid I didn't have enough time to listen to him, I was so preoccupied with Sammy.” She sounds truly sorry.

“I'm sure he'll understand. This is difficult for all of you.”

“Yes, but... he's changed. Elio. I don't know how to describe it...” Annella sighs. “I think art school will be a step in the right direction for him.”

“Absolutely.” Oliver really tries to believe it as well. “Tell him he can call me anytime. If he needs anything.”

“You are a real friend, Oliver.”

Is he?

Oliver wishes them all the best and hangs up.

Annella writes to him over the following weeks. They return to B. in the middle of January. Samuel further improves but needs all sorts of therapies. Mafalda, Anchise and Manfredi help.

She doesn't mention Elio with a single word.

On Claire's birthday at the end of January Oliver gets an angry call from his father.

“Why didn't you tell us?” He barks while his mother can be heard crying in the background.

“I forgot.”

“You _forgot_? You forgot to tell us you left your wife?”

So that's the version Claire is going with? Fine with him.

“Listen, dad, I wasn't exactly proud of myself and I had to figure a lot of things out-”

“What are you, a child? What is all this nonsense? You married Claire, she's a decent woman. Now stick with it, have some kids, work on your career-”

“Dad, that's not going to happen.”

“Oliver, you are a huge disappointment to me and your mum.” His father puts the phone down and Oliver slowly starts breathing again.

He wishes he could tell his nightly caller about this. But the phone's been deadly quiet.

The next day, he visits 'Blue Men' again but they don't have any new films with Tim Albicocka.

“I heard he left Hammer Films.” The clerk says, sounding a little frustrated. “It's a pity. He had this spark of something special only a few have...”

He seems to have discarded his flamboyant clothing in favor of a thick woolen jumper and a scarf around his neck. But his cough isn't better.

He tries to recommend a few other films to Oliver but he's not interested.

It makes sense for Elio to stop filming porn when he wants to go to art school. Oliver should be glad for him. But it somehow feels like a loss. Like a parting.

Mid-February another letter from Italy arrives. The writing is scrawly and barely readable but it's Samuel telling him he's getting better, describing his recovery. In very plain English, but in English. 

_'It's hard but I try to do it all with a smile.'_ Oliver reads. It warms his heart but also makes him cry a little.

Oliver calls Italy the next day and they talk. Samuel still misses a lot of words and uses weird phrases which leads to bursts of laughter. It's called amnesic aphasia, Oliver has looked it up. When he can sense that Samuel gets exhausted, Oliver starts to talk about himself.

“I'm attending a conference on Praxiteles in San Francisco the next week.”

“Yes, I remember. Was invited... but cannot speak.”

“Shall I send you the script?”

“Yes... yes. Please. Elio is... there.”

Oliver swallows. It's not that he thinks about exactly that when he's working on his talk. He had agreed to attend way before he knew Elio would be in San Francisco as well at this time.

And yet... couldn't this coincidence be a sign from the universe? If Oliver would believe in signs...

“Yes. Maybe we could meet. Do you have his number?”

“Maybe. Forgot. Annella will call you.”

But she never does.

So when Oliver arrives in San Francisco he has no means to contact Elio. The first day of the conference is engaging and interesting and his lecture is received warmly but he still feels antsy and restless after delivering it.

In the evening, he leaves his hotel and strolls down to The Castro.

He's heard so much about this quarter. He associates it with freedom, a place where he can dare to be who he really is (also because it's very far away from New York). Subconsciously he might even have hoped to meet Elio there. He thought he would fit in perfectly. True, last time he saw him, he lived with a woman, but somehow Oliver doubts that Elio is straight and what they had was just experimenting with a taste he subsequently dropped.

Yet the reality of The Castro early in 1986 is the total opposite of what he'd expected. Many stores and cafes are boarded up. The streets are mostly deserted, roamed only by lonely man and the odd tourist like him. On the corners and in the dark entryways he sees figures leaning, slumped over, gaunt, trembling, without teeth or hair, skeletal, their faces and forearms dotted with black spots in different shapes and sizes, reaching for everyone passing, asking for money, for drugs.  


The smell is foul, as if corpses are rotting nearby. Perhaps they are.

A junkie shoots up sitting under the bright lights of a Seven-Eleven. No one bothers him.

A few drunks are screaming in the dark.

It's like purgatory, as if Oliver has passed the gates of hell.

After ten minutes he almost runs up to the nearest main road and hails a taxi. He has to wait a few minuets until one stops, though clearly empty one's pass him by.

He returns to his hotel, shaking.

He needs a drink.

So he walks straight over to the hotel bar where he orders a triple scotch. Only after taking a first large gulp does he look around, taking in his surroundings.

The bar is somewhat dimly lit, only illuminated by sparse spots placed strategically in the corners and low over the tables. Sade's 'Smooth Operator' plays over the speakers. The booths are occupied by couples – or pairs – of people, most of them attending the same conference as him. He sees some familiar faces but no-one he really knows.

As he looks to his left, however, he freezes. There's a young, dark-haired man perched on a bar stool a few feet away, chuckling at something his older companion just said.  


Oliver knows the older man. He's working in the classics department at Northwestern University. His name's Dr... Miller. Lance Miller.

And he's currently talking to Elio.

Not just talking. While Oliver stares, Miller reaches over, placing his right hand on Elio's knee.

The whole situation is so surreal Oliver thinks his mind might play a trick on him.

Should he really start to believe in signs and wonders, the random luck of the universe playing in his favor?

He knocks back the rest of his drink, signals the barman for a new one and moves over.

“Dr Miller, isn't it? I heard your talk today about Heraclitus' fragments. Fascinating!”

Oliver doesn't look at Elio but notices that Dr Miller pulls his hand back immediately.

“Oh... uhm.” Miller is visibly struggling.

“Professor Oliver Blatt, Columbia University.” Oliver introduces himself.

“Yes, of course. I read your book, obviously.” Miller smiles, shooting Elio a look as if to tell him to just fuck off. But, to his credit, Elio stays put.

Oliver turns towards him.

“And your young friend here is...?”

Elio stares daggers at him.

“Oh, we just met, casually, and started talking, as one does, alone, away from home-” Miller rambles, his face blushing.

Elio cuts in. “I'm Elio Perlman. I bet you know my father, Samuel Perlman?” He even offers Oliver his hand to shake. He grabs it.

“Samuel Perlman? Of course I know him.”

Now Dr Miller goes pale. “ _The_ Samuel Perlman, archaeologist, the expert on Praxiteles?”

Elio nods. “The very same.”

“I think he even was invited to this conference but couldn't make it, due to some illness. Are you filling in for him?” Oliver can't help it, he loves to rile Elio up.

If looks could kill Oliver would drop dead this instance. “It's true, my father's not well at the moment, but he's on the road to recovery. And no, I'm not a classical scholar, Dr Blatt.”

“Call me Oliver, please. What are you doing here, then?” 

Silence.

Suddenly, Dr Miller makes a point of looking at his watch, exclaiming “Is it already that late!” (It's barely ten) before getting up.

“Your bill, Sir.” The bartender has walked over and presents Miller with a receipt. He frowns but pays it before retreating, walking over to the lifts, wishing them both a good night.

Neither Oliver nor Elio spare him a glance as he leaves.

The bartender sets a new scotch down next to Oliver's elbow, then asks Elio. “Something else?” Oliver sees that Elio has got an almost empty glass of white wine in front of him.

“Bring him a coke.”

“What?” Elio starts to get up but Oliver's hand drops down onto his forearm and stills him. To the barman he says: “Have you carded him?”

The barman shakes his head, looking slightly guilty. “I thought he was with the other gentleman...”

“Well, a coke it is then.” Oliver takes his own drink and walks over to an empty booth, pulling Elio behind. The alcohol gives him courage.

They sit down opposite, Elio sulking.

Oliver has no idea what to say.

So they stay quiet until a waitress sets down a coke with ice, lemon and a straw in front of Elio.

“How's Donna?” Oliver asks eventually, remembering the last time they shared a drink at a bar.

Elio just shrugs reluctantly.

“She's not with you?”

Elio takes a sip, making somewhat of a show sucking on his straw before he answers “No.”, drawing the syllable out for dramatic purpose.

“Sorry, man. I thought you made a nice couple.”

“Did you?” Elio shoots, sounding acerbic.

Oliver sighs. “What happened? You wanna tell me?”

He's pretty sure Elio won't answer but he does. “While I was away, in Italy, she somehow found out what I've been doing. I don't know if Doug called her or something... anyway, when I returned, she'd moved out with Malia. When I came to the bar she wouldn't talk to me. So I left for San Francisco alone.”

He sounds somewhat perturbed, and Oliver feels there's more to them splitting up but doesn't insist. He's grateful that Elio told him this much. Oliver is truly sorry for him.

“And what are you doing here? Your mother said something about art school?”

“That actually had been Donna's idea. Without her... well, I'm trying to get into a music program but it's tough.” He trails off, scratching his wrist, looking anywhere but at Oliver, fidgeting in his seat.

“I bet it is. And in the meantime...?”

“What do you want from me?” Elio is getting more and more impatient by the minute.

“I just want to talk to you, Elio. That's all. And apologize.”

Elio glances around the room. “What for?” He huffs.

“For punching you. For suddenly showing up and getting into your hair... for being a patronizing, meddling asshole.”

Elio grins, openly meeting his eyes for the first time, raising his coke to clink glasses with Oliver. “I drink to that.”

“So, what _are_ you doing these days?” Oliver tries to sound casual.

“What do you think I'm doing?”

Oliver sighs. “Seriously, turning tricks on innocent conference guests?” He knows he should feel shocked, that he should disapprove – but he can't bring himself to do so.

“Innocent? That guy chatted _me_ up. Asked me how old I was.”

“What did you say?”

Elio waits a moment before replying. “Seventeen.”

“Fuck, and he went for it?” Oliver feels both disgusted and amused.

“Totally, tried to fill me up with some cheap wine. Bragged about his academic career. Tried to impress me with his mediocre Greek. I mean...” Elio snickers.

Oliver smiles despite Elio's admission that he's on the game.

“How does it work?” He asks, genuinely interested. He already ventured into gay porn, he thinks he can handle to learn about prostitution as well.

“Oh, Pablo at the bar and I work together, he gets ten percent of what I'm making the night. Plus tip. The Johns usually tip quite generously.”

Oliver nods. He's surprised this doesn't feel more awkward. Elio provides a service that's in demand, the transaction seemingly somewhat secure and well organized.

“And the movies?”

“Oh, fuck it. I simply had to get away from Salinas after Donna knew. I'd hoped to find some work with that silly screen name – photoshoots, strip shows, whatever. I know I have fans. But as it turns out, my screen name belongs to Hammer Films, and they made it clear they'll sue everyone who dares to book me under the name of Tim Albicocka. Maybe Doug's just pissed because I'm legally still under contract for one movie. But then he should have... anyway... fuck him. So, here I am, former adult movie star, trying to pick up old lonely guys at hotel bars.” His smile doesn't reach his eyes. He scratches his wrist again and bites his lip.

Oliver knows that this description fits him as well.

He is silent for a moment, just looking at Elio. He's still very thin, his hair a little longer, the curls now touching his collar. There's not even a shadow of a beard. He actually can pass for seventeen. Tonight he wears a shirt with thin pink and white stripes Oliver thinks he remembers from Italy with blue jeans and white Converse, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He looks strangely innocent, frail and feminine, scrubbed clean but somewhat forlorn.

“I went down to the Castro tonight.” Oliver says suddenly. He hadn't planned for the conversation to take that turn.

“Oh, man, that's a bleak place. Like one of Dante's rings of hell.” Elio draws circles on the table top with the tip of his index finger, looking up at Oliver through his long black lashes.

“Yes, I thought the same. It's sad. So, where are you living?”

“Tenderloin.”

“Okay... sounds cool. Just be careful.” Even Oliver has heard about that quarter.

“I am.” Elio finishes his coke. “So, as you ruined my promising date for tonight and I don't see any other lonely guy hanging about here I think I have to make my way to another haunt to make ends meet.” Elio starts to get up.

Oliver grabs his forearm again. “What about me?”

“Are you joking?” Elio stares down at him.

“No.”

“That's not funny, Oliver.”

“What's your usual going rate?” His mouth is dry, his face feels hot - but he can't let Elio go. Not after just finding him.

Elio licks his lips. Shakes his head. But doesn't pull away. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“What the guy wants.”

“How about just talk?”

“Way too kinky. Why not stick with the usual hand or blow job?” Elio tries to smile.

“Because I already had that with you. Now I want to talk.”

Elio sighs, rakes his free hand through his hair, and it suddenly dawns on Oliver how tired he looks. “Listen, Oliver-”

“Or we don't have to say a word. Just stay with me tonight. Sleep in my bed. Let me hold you. I'm not asking for anything else.” Oliver knows he sounds pathetic and desperate but he's past being ashamed.

For a brief moment he fears Elio might bolt. But then he sits down again. Oliver keeps holding his slim wrist. He can feel the bones under his fingers. “Just stay with you? No other requirements? And you'll pay me for that?”

“No. Yes. Just sleep in my bed, with me. Not like that. Just sleeping. I'm... kinda starved when it comes to human contact. And of course I'll give you money. Whatever you need. I can give it to you now-”

“What about... Claire?” Elio sounds as if he has trouble recalling the name of Oliver's wife.

Oliver blinks. “We... separated. Didn't your mum tell you?”

“Oh. Oh, that explains...” Something passes over Elio's face, not quite a frown but still a quizzical look. Then he visibly pulls himself together. “No, she didn't. But she was really preoccupied with Papa.” His voice sounds flat.

“Yeah, she possibly forgot.” Oliver tries to catch Elio's eyes but he's staring down at the table once again. Or maybe on Oliver's hand on his body. “I'm glad for your dad-”

“Why?” Elio shoots the question, sharp and quick, still avoiding eye contact.

“Why... what? Because he's better, he might live-”

“Why did you separate?” 

Oliver licks his lips, empties his tumbler. “That's... complicated.”

“I have all night.”

“Do you?”

Elio finally looks up. Their gaze meet again and Oliver eventually releases his wrist. Elio's tense face goes a little soft around the eyes and Oliver feels relief wash over him.

Elio nods. “If you order me a real drink and tip Pablo generously.”

Oliver already waves a waitress over. “What you're having?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elio's story in this chapter is very losely based on Brent Corrigan. I remember Thatoldbroad suggesting a CMBYN/King Cobra crossover when I was contemplating how to write this fic - so here's a tad of that.  
> King Cobra is on Netflix where I live and it's not the worst film ever... true, it has James Franco in it (I really don't like him) but also Christian Slater ( I really like him).  
> Again, I'm sorry.  
> Don't worry, all will be fine in the end.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They spend the night together.

They stumble through the door of Oliver’s room an hour later, Oliver comfortably buzzed by two more scotchs. Elio had decided on a Cuba Libre. At least it looked like a coke.

First, they’d talked about Claire.

“So, are you two divorcing?” Elio had asked.

Oliver hadn’t been prepared for such a direct question. “I… don’t know. We’re not even speaking right now, so…”

Elio had nodded, painting patterns into the condensation on his glass with his index finger.

“Tell me about your dad and Italy.” Oliver had asked to change the subject.

That hadn't helped to really lighten the mood.

“It was kind of disturbing seeing him like this, so helpless and frail. Mum was all over him. We hadn’t seen each other for over a year but she barely seemed to notice me.”

“She told me she was glad you were there. That she was thankful for your support.”

Elio had snorted a bitter laugh. “Well, she didn’t tell _me_ that. It was all about 'Sammy here' and 'Sammy there' and 'your Papa needs rest' and 'don’t upset Papa' and at first she was crying all the time when we were alone but then she got her hopes up and started reading up on all sorts of medical things and making plans for a future and I was just… I couldn’t… god, some days I wished he would just die so it would all be over!”

He’d looked up at Oliver after this outburst, as if to check if Oliver would judge him. To be honest, Oliver had felt kind of shocked.

“But you and your dad… you were so close. I always wished I could have what you two have with my own father.”

Elio had shrugged. “Maybe, when I was younger. But now I look at both my parents and I just want to scream at them. They're so complacent, so out of touch with everything outside their cozy little world… I don’t know.” He’d sighed heavily.

“But now Samuel’s getting better. He even wrote me a letter. In English.” Oliver had tried to cheer Elio up.

“Oh, yeah, great. My dad spoke six languages fluently, two of them dead ones… and now it’s an accomplishment for him to compose a letter in plain English.” He’d shook his head with outright disdain, his shoulders hunched up. “He couldn’t even walk when he came home. My mother had to wash him and put him in nappies and-“

Oliver had reached over for Elio’s hand at that point, not so much to hold it as any form of come hither gesture but just to squeeze it and assure him that he was there and listening.

“Elio, I’m sorry.”

Elio’s fingers had been clammy. He’d knocked back the dredges of his drink and looked at something behind Oliver's left shoulder. His eyes had been clouded and a little red, as if he was on the verge of crying.

“Does your offer still stand?”

Oliver had been confused for a moment. “My… what?”

“Can I stay with you, here, for the night? Otherwise I’d have to go to…” Elio's gaze had eventually met Oliver's as he’d kept whatever else he might do vague but not vague enough for Oliver to forget the living dead he’d seen in The Castro earlier this evening.

“Yeah, sure.” Oliver had blinked a few times before settling the bill, including a generous tip for Pablo behind the bar. Maybe due to that no one bothered them as he took Elio up to his room.

They’d stood in silence in the lift, close to each other, shoulders brushing. Around them other conference and hotel guests had chatted and laughed and they hadn’t even looked at each other when exciting on the seventh floor.

Oliver had walked to his room and Elio had trailed behind, his fingertips brushing over the flowery wall paper as if touching something solid would ground him.

Oliver had been very aware of Elio's presence, to the point where the hairs on the back of his neck had suddenly stood up. What were they doing? This had just been a friendly offer with no ulterior motives on Oliver’s part. Right? Right.

They were old friends. Maybe not even friends. Acquaintances, both exiled from their home turf, meeting in the diaspora like generations of Jews before them. And didn't that made them brothers, abiding to the same faith, joined together by a distant yet powerful connection? Maybe not brothers, but cousins. Better than strangers in a strange land, thrown together by banal circumstances. 

Or was Oliver imagining it all? Was he succumbing to his own wishful thinking?

But then Elio had stood so close when Oliver unlocked the door that he had been able to smell the sweet rum and coke on his breath.

Suddenly, the idea of licking into that wet, sugary mouth had seemed very tempting.

Is it that thought that makes him trip over his feet or is it the scotch? And isn’t it only natural in this situation to reach for Elio to stay upright?

But, of course, Oliver is so much heavier, so they both just fall through the door – quite literally, Oliver crashing onto the plush carpet of his room, Elio landing on top of him. They giggle and struggle and Oliver groans as Elio rams his bony elbow right into his stomach when he tries to untangle himself.

“Sorry, sorry.” He apologizes, breathless with laughter.

“Shit!” Oliver grunts.

“You okay?” Elio is kneeling above him, his long thighs bracketing Oliver’s legs.

Oliver could just reach for him, opening his fly, taking him in hand, asking him to come all over his chest, reciprocating what he had done in B.

Or he could pull Elio down in his lap while pushing his own hips up, bringing their groins together, grinding.

Would Elio mind? He fucks strangers for money, so why not Oliver?

Bad, bad idea, Oliver reminds himself but he doesn’t move and neither does Elio. They stare at each other, their laughter dying down.

“Can I… help you?” Elio asks, cocking his head to one side. His voice has dropped as have his eyelids.

Oliver is quite aware of what's happening. That this is not real, but a show put on by Elio – or is he Tim now? – much like he does in his movies when he wants to come over as seductive.

But, god, how many times had Oliver fantasized that this look was directed at him?

And now it is…

They both jump when they can hear the lift ping, spitting out people, talking and laughing.

The spell is broken.

Oliver just shakes his head and wiggles out from beneath Elio – which isn’t easy given his size – getting up to sidestep him and eventually close the door.

They are alone, Elio still on his knees.

Oliver reaches for him, offering his hand. “There’s a complimentary toothbrush in the bathroom by the sink. I can give you a t-shirt to sleep in.”

Elio slowly takes his hand and gets to his feet. “Don’t you remember that I sleep just in my boxers? Or naked.” His voice is husky.

“Maybe in Italy. But not here. Not tonight. I’m not… this is not…” Oliver feels himself blush as he stutters like a teenager on his first date.

Elio steps close, not releasing Oliver’s hand, a small smile playing on his lips. Oliver tries to step backwards but only hits the wall in the narrow space.

“Are you sure?” It’s not much louder than a whisper.

Fuck.

No, he isn’t sure. Not at all.

“I want to be good.” He says it without much conviction, licking his dry lips as his eyes drop to Elio's mouth, so close.

“Am I offending you?” Elio reaches for him then with his free hand; Oliver succeeds in grabbing his wrist before he can touch him again like years back in his secret spot in B.

“Just don't.”

"You’re hurting me.” Elio tries to free his arm.

“Then don’t fight.”

“Or what? You’ll punch me again?”

Oliver let’s go of Elio then and steps quickly to the side, bringing a few feet of space between them.

“Shit. Sorry. No.” He rakes his hands through his hair and turns away, unable to look at Elio in his pink Italian shirt and with his pink wet lips any longer. “Let’s just go to bed, okay.”

What the fuck was he thinking?

Oliver only turns back around when he can hear the bathroom door click shut.

He puts on his sensible pajama – dark-navy flannel – and pulls a fresh t-shirt for Elio out of his leather holdall.

Elio takes a long while in the bathroom. To calm himself, Oliver puts on the TV, switching through the channels without really taking in what he’s watching.

After what feels like an eternity the bathroom door is opened a fraction. “Can I take a shower?” Elio asks, his voice low and lazy, his words a little slurred.

Oliver has no idea how his circumstances are right now, if he’s living in decent accommodation. Maybe the facilities are very basic? So why not let Elio have a nice hot shower?

Because that would mean he would be wet and naked just a few feet away, lathering his lean body in fragrant soap. Oliver vividly remembers a scene just like that from one of his movies before two other men got in with him under the spray, taking turns fucking him while he moaned and begged…

“Yeah, sure, be my guest.” Oliver doesn’t look away from the TV but registers that the bathroom door stays ajar nonetheless.

He hears the water cascading down – over long, pale limbs he imagines, rosy skin, between Elio's legs, down his cleft...

The room fills with the scent of _Drakar Noir_ , Oliver's shower gel…

Oliver tries very hard to immerse himself in some documentary about classic cars but his treacherous thoughts wander over into the bathroom again and again. He knows how Elio looks when his curls drip with water and his skin glistens, rivulets running down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat, his tiny nipples hard and peaked – he's seen him like this many times in Italy.

He's unable to suppress his arousal, feels himself growing hard and switches over to the news in a desperate aim at distracting himself. A journalist is reporting about some famine afflicting an African country Oliver is only vaguely aware exists and couldn't find on a map. Yet the images flashing over the screen are enough to make his hard-on wither.

Eventually, Elio emerges from the bathroom, a towel slung low around his narrow waist, his pink and white shirt hanging open.

His skin _is_ flushed from the hot water that _is_ still dripping from his hair, pooling in the hollow of his throat… Fuck! He's Oliver's wet dream come alive and in the flesh.

“There’s a hair dryer in the bath as well.” Oliver says, holding out his t-shirt at arms length for Elio to put on.

Elio grins. “Ruins the curls.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “You’ll get the pillows all damp.”

“You are the most… fuck, you really care about those stupid hotel pillows? I thought I give it one last try coming onto you like this but you-“ The sentence dissolves into a throaty laugh.

Oliver cracks up as well. “Elio, please… let’s just get into bed and sleep. I’m knackered. And we shouldn’t… you know. That’s not what this is about. Not for me. And not for you either if you’re honest.”

Elio looks around the room, licks his lips, nods. He doesn’t seem defeated or embarrassed, though; Oliver thinks he senses a hint of relief instead?

“Okay, can you switch the lights off?” Elio asks as he clambers onto the mattress and finally takes the t-shirt from Oliver's hands.

Oliver does before going into the bathroom as well. The sight of Elio’s toothbrush in the second, previously unused jar makes his heart flutter. After he’s brushed his teeth and washed his face he sees Elio’s bag and discarded clothes lying in the corner and picks them up.

When he returns to the bedroom it's almost in darkness, the only light coming from the TV screen and the tip of Elio’s cigarette. He’s leaning against the headboard of the king size bed on the right side – his side, Oliver remembers – the covers pulled up almost to his chin, watching an old black and white movie.

“Oh, _'All About Eve'_.” Oliver lowers himself onto the mattress, putting Elio’s bag between them. He thinks something flickers over Elio’s face as he swiftly grabs it and places it on the floor.

“Hm. I always liked this movie.” Elio mumbles while he sorts through the pile of his clothes, clutching the sheet to his chest like some Victorian virgin before discretely putting his boxers back on under the blanket.

“I bet you do.” Oliver smiles, waiting till Elio seems dressed and settled before he gets under the covers as well.

They lie a chaste foot apart, both watching the film in silence. When the end credits roll Oliver asks: “Can I have one as well?”

Elio moves, angles for his discarded pink shirt and pulls a cheap plastic lighter and a pack of Lucky Strikes from its breast pocket. He lights two and offers one to Oliver.

“Thanks, man.”

He takes a deep drag, feeling his body relax as the nicotine hits his brain.

“I have to be up tomorrow at eight. Conference starts at ten.”

“Okay.” Elio’s face blurs in the shadows, only his mouth visible, sucking on his cigarette.

“Well… okay then.” Oliver angles for the ashtray. “Good night, Elio.”

Elio has finished his cigarette as well. “Good night, Oliver.”

Their fingers briefly brush as they stub out their butts.

Oliver switches off the TV before lying down. It's so dark he can barely see his hand before his eyes with only a faint glimmer of light from the streets seven floors down penetrating the curtains.

They both keep very still at first. Until Oliver feels Elio shift a little. As he turns his head, he more senses than sees that Elio has rolled onto his right side, hugging a pillow but now facing Oliver.

“Is this okay?” Elio asks, his voice soft and uncertain.

Oliver nods. “Yes.”

“You said you missed... human touch.”

“I do. Claire and I separated almost four months ago...”

“And since then there's been... no-one?”

“No-one.” Oliver confirms.

“Why not? You're single and live in New York. There are so many opportunities...”

“Not for me. I'm not... like that. Going out, hooking up... the whole scene seems rather dubious to me. And it's dangerous.”

Elio laughs low and husky. “You think so?”

“People are dying, Elio. And tonight, when walking through the Castro-”

“Yeah... but you can't live in fear all the time. Why are you so afraid what others think of you? You live in fear of people finding out, fear of getting outed, fear of getting sick. You have to start being yourself, Oliver.”

“That's easier said than done. I think it's a process. I'm coming to terms with me and... everything, but it takes time.”

Elio sighs, moving a little closer.

“It's just sex, Oliver.”

“Not for me.” He reaches over then, raking his fingers through Elio's still damp curls, his palm cupping the back of his head. Elio doesn't flinch, doesn't move away, but doesn't get any closer either.

“Why are you suddenly so serious? Wasn't it just fun back in Italy? A summer fling?” Elio whispers.

“Fun? I don't know. No. It felt like...”

“Yes?”

“Let's got to sleep, Elio.” Because what can Oliver say? That he made a mistake? That he's been a coward, a liar? That he's not sure if leaving Elio had been his biggest error or hooking up with him in the first place? 

That everything had seemed like the right decision at the time but seeing as it has fucked Elio up apparently he's not so sure anymore?

Because it has totally fucked him up as well...

Regret is a poison fucking with your feelings.

“You said you wanted to hold me?” Elio's voice is small.

“I do. But-”

“I want you to.”

What can Oliver do but sigh and open his arms?

And so they snuggle up against each other, a little clumsy and awkward at first, but then Elio shifts and Oliver wraps his arm around his waist and it just feels so natural. Muscle memory kicking in.

So right.

Like it used to be.

They fit.

As their breathing evens out they both fall asleep soon, sharing each others warmth.

Oliver awakes early the next morning not from the alarm of his watch but because someone's twitching next to him. It’s been a while since he’s slept in the same bed with another person. And Elio is notorious for steeling the blanket.

As he did during the night. Oliver is barely covered by a piece of cotton while Elio is wrapped up like a burrito, only his dark mop of curls protruding from the layers of fabric hugging his body, reminding Oliver of a mummification. Luckily, he's not cold because Elio is pressed firmly against his side, his hair tickling Oliver’s neck as he snores peacefully, huffing out warm breath.

He turns a little when Oliver pulls on the sheet covering him, not necessarily to get under the covers but to unwrap Elio and get a better look at him. He used to be a sight to behold when sleeping. Oliver just wants to sneak a secret peek while Elio’s still asleep.

Oliver succeeds in peeling away a few layers without waking Elio up. His face is angelic, mother-of-pearl eyelids covering green eyes flickering as he dreams. The barest hint of stubble dusts his sharp yaw. His rosy lips are slightly parted as he breathes deep and even.

When he just grunts and turns a fraction Oliver dares to pull the sheet back a little more. Elio’s bony shoulder joint sticks out from under the t-shirt, as does his pale clavicle, visible because the neckline of Oliver’s t-shirt is too wide for his narrow frame. Oliver remembers that Elio didn’t even get tanned during their Italian summer, so the Californian sun didn't have a chance either.

His skin is almost white, like marble or alabaster.

Elio’s arms are folded around his chest as if hugging himself. His wrists are shockingly scraggy and marred with barely healed scratch marks. But more shocking are the angry purplish marks on the inside of his elbows.

Oliver isn't sure what he's looking at. No, that's not true, he is sure what he's looking at but he never thought he would see it on Elio's body.

He simply can't wrap his mind around what's right before his eyes.

It's true, Oliver likes to smoke weed sometimes. Even more so when he was still a student, but now as a professor he still enjoys to relax with a spliff from time to time. He's done it with Elio in Italy as well.

He'd never asked if Elio had ever done this before but somehow had assumed he did because, come on, everyone does it. It's no big deal.

With a pang he hears Dr Rhys' voice again, suspecting that Elio might have started doing drugs at uni. Somehow, Oliver had thought it must have been marijuana but apparently Elio had graduated from harmless pot to something much more potent and dangerous.

Or maybe he'd started shooting up while doing porn? Now Oliver remembers that his eyes had sometimes looked glassy and unfocused in the movies but he'd chalked it up to arousal – or maybe pills. Despite Elio telling him that Doug kept an eye on his performers, even Oliver has heard that Poppers is involved when shooting hardcore scenes, especially for the bottom, to relax. It's maybe not the healthiest substance to inhale but it's not fucking heroin.

Because everyone knows that you should never, ever do heroin.

Heroin kills.

And yet, it seems to be precisely what Elio is injecting in his veins, poisoning his beautiful body.

Oliver feels as if someone just emptied a bucket of cold water over his head.

He scoots back a little, suddenly fully awake, and looks hard at Elio, takes in how thin he is, not just lean like in Italy but gaunt, bordering on emaciated; his papery skin stretched tight over sharp bones; his slightly unkempt too long hair, now tousled from sleep; dark rings under his eyes despite having rested for hours; his skin translucent but too dry, more grayish than milky. His lips are flaky. His fingernails are bitten down and bloody.

Dressed in decent clothes and with the dimmed lighting of the bar last night he'd been able to pass for attractive but the harsh Californian morning sun exposes mercilessly the state he's truly in, now that Oliver can do nothing but look and finally see.

“Oh Elio.” Oliver reaches for him as if to touch his cheek but pulls back in the last second. Because who knows...

Who knows if his physical state is just due to the drugs? He had rough, unprotected sex with various men; and he's using IV. He's engaging in highly risky behavior. Which makes it quite likely that he has _IT_  
.  
Like those poor lost souls Oliver has seen last night, more dead than alive, rotting away.

As if Elio could hear his thoughts he starts to shiver, goosebumps breaking out all over his arms as he blindly searches for the sheet to pull it back around his body. Oliver quickly entangles himself and pushes all of the comforter towards Elio. 

Who knows if it's enough to share a blanket with someone infected to get _IT_ , like lice or scabies?

No one knows anything for sure despite that if you catch IT you'll die, alone and miserable and sometimes not fast enough to prevent you from going mad as the disease eats away your body and mind.

Oliver nearly falls off the bed in his haste to get some distance between their bodies. The mattress dips and wobbles and that shakes Elio awake. He blinks a few times before the sweetest smile Oliver has seen in a long time spreads on his face as he opens his eyes and looks at him. It's like waking early on a summer's day almost three years ago in Italy when they were each other's first sight in the morning and the last before they eventually closed their eyes late at night. It's a look full of trust, happiness, warmth - and maybe even a little love.

“Oliver.” Elio mumbles softly, apparently still in a sleepy haze. “Oliver.”

When Elio reaches for him with one thin arm Oliver instinctively moves even further back until he's somewhat comically clinging to the edge of the bed.

“Hey... you... don't.” He stutters.

Somehow, hearing his voice seems to fully wake Elio. He sits up abruptly, gathering the sheet around himself like a dramatic shroud.

“What...? Where...? How...?” He looks around with a mixture of panic and disorientation on his face before peeking below the sheet. “Did we...?”

“No! No, we didn't.” Oliver hurries to say. _'And thank god.'_ Just the thought that he'd at least contemplated to make out with Elio last night now makes him feel queasy.

“That's... good. Or not?” Elio squints up at him, lost and unsure.

“It's all fine.” Oliver assures him. It sounds false.

“Where were you going? Why are you up? What time is it? I need...” Elio scratches his wrists again, a habit Oliver remembers from last night as well. He seems erratic, almost a little paranoid as he nervously starts to search through his clothes and then his bag.

Oliver reaches for his watch on the nightstand. “It's just past six. But the conference starts early.”

Elio nods but he doesn't seem to listen as he moves beneath the sheet. He shivers again, more violent this time, and presses his bag to his chest.

“I was only going to shower.” Oliver says, finally getting up, turning towards the bathroom. He wants to get away from Elio but he also fears to leave him alone in the room.

“Do you mind if I use it first? I really need to piss.” Elio is already clambering out of bed, the sheet still pulled around himself, but he somehow manages to carry his bag without dropping it. “I need... you know... just a minute. Thanks.” He stumbles past Oliver and closes the bathroom door. Oliver can hear the latch being turned.

Shit!

Oliver is pretty sure that Elio is shooting up in there right now.

And he can do nothing. He's helpless.

He walks over to the window to put as much distance between them as possible, as if that would make things better, easier, as if he can pretend not to know when he's just far enough away. On his way, he pats his jacket that he hung over the back of a chair last night. His wallet is still there. He quickly puts it in the safe in his closet.

Junkies are notorious thieves.

God, but this is Elio, not a faceless addict.

He needs a coffee.

But he doesn't dare to leave the room. He can't leave Elio.

Elio. Beautiful, brilliant Elio.

Oliver leans his forehead against the cool window pane, blind to the beauty of the San Francisco skyline outside.

This isn't some random junkie hooker he picked up last night.

This.Is.Elio.

Or what has become of him.

What he made him.

Suddenly, Oliver feels at the verge of crying.

He flinches when he hears the bathroom door open again.

“Okay, I'm done. Thanks again.”

When Oliver turns, Elio is still wrapped in the sheet. But his eyes seem brighter, very green. There's color in his cheeks and slight perspiration dampening his brow.

Oliver feels bile rise in his throat. He tries to swallow it down, almost choking.

He forces himself to speak. “Elio, please sit down. We have to talk.” Why is his mouth so dry?

To Oliver's utter surprise, Elio lowers himself back onto the bed and stares up at him, waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all survived the holidays?  
> Sorry for the cliffhanger. I'll try to update once more this year.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio bares his soul and it's not a pleasant sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, listen, this is short but REALLY angsty af.

Shit!

Why can he never plan ahead when it comes to Elio? Why does this boy so completely undo him? Why does he always have to talk before he really knows what he wants to say, stumbling headlong into harm?

Elio sits on the bed, staring at him as the seconds tick by and Oliver stays silent.

Speak or die, but suddenly, this phrase gets a whole new meaning.

In the end, as Elio seems to sense that there's nothing forthcoming, it's him who shrugs and asks: “What?”

His casualness shocks Oliver out of his stasis.

“What did you do in the bathroom?” He asks. God, he sounds so awkward, still circumventing, unable to say the words ringing in his head.

“Whaat? Are you asking me-” Elio's voice rises but he suddenly seems on guard, frowning a little as he averts his gaze.

“I don't mean... fuck, Elio, this isn't easy for me.”

“You want me to tell what I did on the toilet? Mind, it's not the craziest thing some dude asked of me, only I'd never had put you down for a-”

“Stop! Stop it.” Oliver raises both his hands and his voice. Elio jumps, scooting back on the bed, pulling the sheet tighter around himself. He looks suddenly very young and defenseless.

“Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm don't want to yell at you but... Elio, are you shooting drugs?” Oliver knows he sounds pathetic but he has no other words to ask for what he suspects, still hoping he's mistaken and there's a harmless explanation for everything.

But just watching Elio pale as he twists to the side, reaching with one hand for his clothes, is somehow answer enough.

“Elio-”

“It's none of your fucking business!” He's succeeded to untangle his jeans and starts to pull them on.

“It is. You are my...” Oliver trails off, staring at Elio's sickly thin legs. Like a scarecrow.

“I am your _what_!” Now it's Elio's turn to get loud. “Your friend? Ha. Your fuckboy? Not even that. Your project, the boy you want to safe? You know what, Oliver, I don't need saving. And certainly not from you, someone so deep in denial about himself that he's not only in the closet but loves it there and calls it home. Fuck you! Just fuck you.” He gets up and buttons his fly.

“Elio, you're ruining your life-”

“I think we already had this conversation.” Elio unceremoniously drops the sheet, pulls Oliver's t-shirt off and tosses it onto the bed. Oliver can see it clearly now, the marks in different shades of brown, violet, red, some fresh, others fading, on both of Elio's wiry arms. Aware of Oliver's stare, Elio even takes a step towards him as if presenting his scars as some form of stigmata, signs he's proud of as if earned in a battle.

It pains Oliver just to look at them. But beneath the ache latent fear is spreading.

“I might be fucking up my life but at least I'm true to myself. I don't hide who I am.” Elio spits.

Torn between anguish and worry Oliver's brain decides it's best to get angry. “Oh, yeah, and that's really getting you somewhere, isn't it? You had everything, Elio! And where are you now? You're selling your body to some poor sods for cash and to endure that you have to get high. God, I envy you!”

It's cruel, Oliver knows it, but who is he to take a lecture on life and love from Elio Perlman?

Elio seems unfazed by his outburst as he continues to dress himself, already buttoning up his pink shirt.

“Yeah, whatever...,” he sighs. It seems he didn't even listen. Oliver watches with dread as Elio finally shoulders his bag and makes for the door.

“Do your parents know?” He asks as a last resort to hold him back.

Elio stops, hand on the door handle.

“As if they'd care.” He turns, his face suddenly crestfallen. “You know, for a moment I thought they did send you here. But they're just so absorbed with each other, a symbiosis. Always have been. I was just made to tag along. They never truly cared about me. I was their special project, just like I am with you, a protege. Imagine I'd turned out mediocre. You think they would still love me? Well, as it appears, I am rather mediocre – and look, where are they? I haven't heard from them in weeks.”

“Elio, your dad almost died. Your mother-”

“I could die any day as well, you know that! People like us are dying. I could make a mistake and OD. They even know I'm gay. But they never even asked if I was okay, if my friends were okay... they just don't care. Either they have no idea what's happening in this world or they simply don't give a fuck!”

Tears are running down his cheeks and Elio angrily wipes them away with the back of his hand.

“You can't truly believe that?” Oliver feels numb. He has seen with his own eyes how much Samuel and Annella adore their son, up to the point where he'd got kind of jealous because his parents never looked at him like Elio's parents looked at their son.

“You haven't been there. When I went home. I tried to get clean there. I locked myself in my room and was sick for days. You think my mother came looking for me? No, it was Mafalda who brought me water and soup and cleaned the bathroom after I vomited all over the place. While my mother kept vigil with my father. Who is fine now, by the way. While I'm...” His body is shaking with a violent sob.

“Is that why Donna threw you out? Because of the drugs?” Oliver can understand it but it still makes him sorry for Elio.

“Yeah, and why Doug won't work with me anymore.” Elio is staring down at the carpet. “I tried to stop but... it's hard.”

Oliver can't even remotely imagine what Elio went through. “Are you alright? Have you... have you got tested?” He feels cold all over but he has to ask, has to know.

Elio visibly tries to get his breath back under control. Then he nods. “Just last week. Nothing. I'm miraculously negative. No idea why. It's not that I'm incredibly careful.”

“God, why, Elio? What is this? Some sort of death wish?”

Elio shrugs. “Maybe. Who cares?”

“I do.” Oliver says it without thinking. It's the truth.

Elio just laughs, high and bitter.

“Sure you do. Like the last time, until you decided you'd preferred to get married so you tossed me aside like an old shirt.”

“I thought it was the best for both of us. You were still so young... it was all so complicated...” Oliver can't keep it together any longer. He feels drained. His head hurts. He sits down onto the unmade bed, burying his head in his hands.

He's sure the next thing he'll hear is the door slamming shut and therefore is surprised when the mattress dips next to him and he feels Elio's fingers on his shoulder.

“Yes, I was very young, and so in love.” He whispers. “You were my first. And I thought you loved me back. I'd done anything for you, Oliver. But you just toyed with me and then dropped me. And I thought, if that's what love is like I can't go through that ever again.” He doesn't sound angry anymore, just empty and hollow.

“I'm sorry.” Oliver chokes out.

“Don't be. I'm glad it was you who taught me this lesson. It might have been worse with someone else.” Oliver suddenly feels Elio's head resting on his shoulder. “You know, all those men who fucked me later... they all were somehow you.”

“Don't say that.”

“With everyone I worked through what you did to me. Touch me, fuck me, use me...You know, my dad told me not to kill my feelings after you'd left. And I didn't. I wallowed in the loss until it became some sort of all-permeating bitterness. I savored it. And it didn't get better with time, like they say. Maybe I just acquired a thicker skin, like scar tissue. In the end I felt nothing. I still don't. If a stranger fucks me, I don't even feel disgust, or hurt. I just don't care anymore and that feels... good. Powerful. Now I'm in charge. I decide with whom I go, how much it costs him.”

“Elio...” Oliver looks up, shocked by these statements. What the hell is he talking about?

“Are you proud of what you did, Oliver? What you made of me? You called me by your name – and I became you. Now I'm just using people like you used me.”

“Elio, don't.” Oliver whispers but he's not sure Elio hears him. His face is flushed, eyes shining like he has a fever.

“I'm kinda glad you found out, Oliver. Because now you know. And if they find me in a dark alley, dead and cold, next week or next month or next year, you'll know who got me there.” His smile is thin and cruel. It feels like someone is twisting a knife in Oliver's heart. 

“Elio, you have to stop this. Please.”

“Elio. Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio.” Elio chants. It feels like being slapped.

“You're killing yourself.”

Elio reaches out and touches his face very gently. “But I told you. I told you, you'd kill me if you stopped. But you stopped anyway.”

They look at each other, but there's no wrath left within both of them. They're just tired, worn out by moving in endless circles, orbiting around each other in parallel spheres, never truly meeting.

“You stopped, didn't you?” Elio asks eventually his voice trembling a little.

Oliver shakes his head. “No.”

They both sit on this bed in this impersonal hotel room where Elio had chosen to bare his soul in the most brutal fashion, so far from home and happiness it's outright ridiculous in its futility.

“Come with me to New York. I can help you get clean, get a flat, get back into university...” Oliver blurts out. It can't end like this.

“No, Oliver.”

“Please.”

“No.”

And there's nothing more to say. But as Elio lingers, Oliver gets up and writes his address and phone number on a page of the hotel's stationary. He then gets his wallet out of the safe and takes out all the cash he has.

“Here, if you change your mind. And for... you know.”

Elio takes the piece of paper and the money, folds it a few times and stuffs it in a pocket of his jeans as he gets up.

“Yeah... okay. It was... no, it wasn't good to see you, but it was necessary, I guess. Good-bye, Oliver.”

Oliver wants to hug him one last time but Elio is out of the door before he can reach for him. He stands in the middle of the room, lost and lonely, feeling like someone punched him. He has no idea how he's supposed to get through the day, let alone the rest of his life, knowing what Elio is doing to himself.

As he stands under the shower a few minutes later, the full extent of Elio's words start to sink in. This is all his fault. He'd messed this boy up beyond repair, despite his best intentions to avoid just that. He's not only been an idiot, he's a monster.

And now he gets his due punishment.

Oliver cries silently under the spray as he realizes that he truly ruined the best thing life has ever offered him.

Back in New York he lives in a kind of fog. He can't forget Elio, his words echoing in his head. He drags himself to university and back and in the evenings he sits in an apartment that belongs to someone else and compulsively watches Elio having sex with other men.

He tried to throw the videos away, he really did. But he couldn't bring himself to do so, not even after Elio has told him how he'd felt making them.

It's his fault Elio is doing this and therefore it's his duty to watch, to bear witness as Elio walks down the path of self-destruction.

His lonely nights are only disturbed by the silent calls that resume after his return from San Francisco.

He knows now who his mysterious caller is and fears for the day when they stop.

He never calls him by his name, though, as if that would somehow break the spell. He keeps up pretending, asks who's there, then, as the line stays silent, talks about his day. But more and more often he stays quiet as well, just listening down the line.

Listening to Elio breathing.

Sometimes he hears cars in the background, sometimes the murmuring of people speaking. Sometimes music. Once the deep voice of another man before the receiver is hastily put down.

Oliver tries to imagine the places from which Elio calls him but it always ends up with him seeing Elio lying on the dirty floor of a public bathroom, a needle in his arm, not moving, his face waxen, eyes open wide.

Not breathing anymore.

So, for as long as Elio keeps calling him and he can hear Elio breathe, things are... well, not good, obviously, but better than the alternative that keeps Oliver awake at night, waiting for the phone to ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm, okay, I'm sorry again to leave you in a place like this for New Years. But I can promise you that in the next chapter Oliver eventually pulls his head out of his arse. It won't be all fluff and unicorns onwards but it will get slightly better insofar as they'll be together at the end of next chapter. Well, not together together but Oliver will offer help and Elio will finally accept it.  
> Happy New Year everyone! It has been a crazy year for me. I hope it has been a good, interesting, satisfying year for you, despite all the shit going on in this world! I hope you stick around next year to see how this story concludes. I've finished writing it; it just needs editing now. And an epilopgue. But don't worry. I'm going with E.M. Forster here: 'To a happier year!'


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver brings Elio to New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Thank you for staying with me and this story!  
> There's good and bad stuff going on in this chapter.  
> A lot of blood and puke coming - I know this is upsetting for some so be warned.

The Perlmans keep writing letters and calling. Samuel is getting stronger, his convalescent proceeding better than expected. Oliver can't bring himself to talk to them about Elio but his parents mention him sometimes, so Oliver knows that he's still in San Francisco. 

Oliver doesn't ask further questions.

At least the nightly phone calls continue.

“Listen, Oliver, you know we have already chosen a new house guest for the Summer but after all you did for us... and Elio, he told us you came over to California and talked to him... we'd really like to invite you as well.” Samuel tells him shortly after Spring break which he'd spend in New York despite an invitation from Peter to Florida. He doesn't want to go anywhere. How could Elio call him in Daytona Beach? “Please, come over. We miss you.”

“Yes, Oliver, please, you have to. Sammy is bored out of his mind, he needs intellectual stimulation.” Annella agrees.

Oliver doesn't dare to ask if Elio will be there as well. He answers evasively, trying to sidestep the offer by claiming that he has to finish his book.

“Even better. No one will disturb you here.” Samuel sounds excited. “You can use my library. Our home is your home, remember?”

It's so tempting. But somehow his guilty conscience holds him back to accept, though Elio's parents keep insisting. But he's messed up his life once in B. He doesn't feel ready to visit the place again. Too many memories. Too many ghosts.

At the beginning of April, Oliver gets a letter from Claire's lawyer. She's filed for divorce. It doesn't shock him the way he thinks it should.

He hasn't heard from his parents since their phone call in December. He didn't keep in touch with friends either, who are mostly their mutual friends – his and Claire's – and will certainly stick with Claire's side. Especially when she tells them the true reason why they are separating.

No one at the university knows – apart from Peter who had helped with his new place to live but whom Oliver had asked to keep quiet.

He'd popped over a few weeks after Oliver had moved with a bottle of wine to _chat_ – more likely to pump him for information, Oliver had suspected – but he'd just mumbled something along the line of it being too fresh to talk about. They'd settled for a discussion on Burnyeat's newest essay on Aristotle and Plato instead. This had been before San Francisco.

Afterwards, he simply had ignored his private live falling apart because he's been too busy worrying about Elio, waiting for silent phone calls in the middle of the night.

If they don't happen it's like wave after wave of anxiety washing over him, making sleep impossible. If they happen, it's not much different. And his exertion seems to show. Colleagues at the department ask him if he's alright. When Peter tactfully suggests marriage counseling Oliver can't help but laugh, which earns him a strange look and a skeptical frown.

On the evening of Friday the same week the lawyer wrote, Oliver is invited to a book presentation by a fellow professor – an affair he couldn't wriggle himself out of. His attendance is expected.

He makes it for half an hour, downing sour white wine like it's water before excusing himself. Peter pats his back and nods in sympathy. As he leaves the bookshop, Oliver realizes he's just a few blocks away from 'Blue Men'.

It's been a while. He had no cause to pay it another visit, now that Elio has stopped working for Hammer Films. Yet for nostalgia's sake he decides to walk by. Well, at least that's what he tells himself.

When he reaches the store, however, it is boarded up and dark. There's a note glued to the entrance that Oliver can read through the metallic shutters.

_'Temporarily closed due to illness.'_

The handwriting is already faded.

Oliver goes cold all over despite it's one of the first evenings when you can feel the warmth of Spring in the air.

He never even knew the man's name, for god's sake!

But this little note hits him like a ton of bricks.

Because he knows that the shop will stay closed.

This is not a temporary thing – it's final.

At home, Oliver doesn't care that it's the middle of the night in Italy. He calls anyway and insists on Annella giving him Elio's address in San Francisco. She sounds a little worried but is maybe too sleepy to ask further questions. Oliver doesn't offer an explanation either, just thanks her and hangs up.

Afterwards, he leaves a message on the university department's answer phone that he has to cancel all classes next week due to a family emergency before he packs a few things into his brown leather carryall, locks the apartment door and hails a taxi to the airport.

He’s fully prepared to spend the night at JFK but is lucky in catching the last flight out to California, even though he has to sprint to his gate. He lands in San Francisco way after midnight. His taxi driver smirks and winks as he asks to be driven to Eddy Street in the Tenderloin, offering to show him around if he's looking for something _special_.  
Oliver brusquely declines and just tells the guy to drive on.

Elio’s flat is located in a white four-storied building, the stucco gray from dirt and fumes. A metal fire escape runs up the front from above the awning of the 24-hour-liquor-store located on the ground floor, its yellow and green neon sign reflected on the rain-damp pavement.

Only as he arrives at Elio’s address does it dawn on Oliver that maybe Elio doesn’t live there anymore. Should he have checked before flying nearly 3000 miles? But Annella has told him that they pay for his apartment – and why should a junkie turn down free accommodation? So Oliver presses the bell for flat seven and waits.

The entrance to the building is set back a little from the pavement in a small dark entryway next to the liquor store’s barred shop windows. It smells of piss and cheap schnapps and Oliver thinks he sees something – or someone? - move in the darkness further down. The whole surroundings don't seem too inviting. He's sure curiosity could kill you here for real so he doesn't pry.

No one answers his ringing though he tries a few times. It’s now three in the morning and Elio is either not in or asleep. Or worse…

No! Oliver pushes the thought away as he leans against the cold metal door, wondering what to do now.

Apparently, he'll have to wait. Because Elio doesn’t have a phone. When he calls Italy he does it from a phone box down the road, Annella had told him when he'd asked for Elio's number. This time, however, Oliver has bought cigarettes at the airport and now lights one, avoiding to look too closely in the corner of the entryway where he's now sure he can see someone rolled up inside a cardboard box in the flickering light of his match. He takes a few steps to the side to not disturb and probably upset the homeless – or draw attention to himself. The Tenderloin is notorious for mugging and he sure looks the part of the wealthy tourist. He's a walking target.

Just as Oliver is contemplating if he should take up station inside one of the sleazy but at least still open bars on the other side of the street the door behind him opens and two women walk out. Well, they more stumble, holding each other upright by their shoulders. They are both wearing very short dresses and high-heeled boots reaching up to mid-thigh. They stare at Oliver for a moment in passing before staggering down the street, out into the night, shouting and waving to stop a taxi.

Oliver catches the door before it falls shut again and steps into a gloomy hallway.

The smell here isn’t much better than outside, only enhanced by the scent of old frying fat and general decay. The light comes from a single bare bulb Oliver discovers dangling two stories up from the flaky ceiling.

This building is as far removed as possible from the palazzo Elio had lived in in B. – and Oliver wonders if that’s exactly why he chose it as he climbs the stairs up to the 4th floor where apartment number 7 is located.

Oliver takes a deep breath and knocks. Again, there's no answer. He kind of expected it and still... it makes him feel both uneasy and relieved. He has no idea what awaits him behind this door and has to admit that he's somewhat glad for the delay to find out. 

From the apartment opposite Oliver can hear shrill laughter and loud music – a song he has heard before, something German about Mozart. Elio loves Mozart. Oliver hates the song. He can also smell the distinct scent of pot mixing with the general foul odour of the whole building. His head starts to throb.

Yet as he has nowhere else to go, no hotel booked, he decides to simply wait some more. If Elio hadn’t returned by sunrise he’ll find a way to get into his flat – if need be he’ll even call the cops.

As the light clicks off he sits down on the stairs, darkness enveloping him as he listens to the sounds of the building. The music changes to something slow and lulling. A dog barks. A baby cries. A door is slammed shut. Outside, a siren blares.

Oliver suddenly realizes how tired he is. His inner clock is totally off. His stomach starts to rumble and he longs for something sweet and greasy – a doughnut or waffle maybe.  
To keep awake, he tries to decide on the best way to get Elio to come with him to New York. Should he plead? Should he appeal to his reason, explain that what he does is simply too dangerous, irresponsible, and unjustifiable towards his parents? He's their only child – he can't throw his life away like he does right now.

But then he's tried that already – without success. Remembering their last conversation in February makes Oliver feel sick. It had ended with Elio leaving and with him returning to New York alone. This can't happen again.

So maybe Oliver will have to threaten Elio by announcing to expose him and what he does to his parents should he refuse to accompany him and get clean? He's sure that Elio – despite his outward indifference – really, really doesn't want his parents to know what he's been doing since he dropped out of college.

But what if Elio thinks he's just bluffing? Oliver remembers his cynical tone, his self-loathing. Why should Elio even listen to him?

In regard of the serious situation Oliver doesn't feel above to even show Annella and Samuel the videos their son has made. It's not a pleasant thought but he'll do it if everything else fails to convince Elio to stop his downward spiral.

When Samuel and Annella cease to pay for him – as they surely will when they learn that Elio is using and has been doing porn – it has to bring him to his senses.

It has to!

Otherwise... Oliver doesn't let his thoughts go there. Because if Elio declines his help again it might be the last time.

Oliver has dreamt a few times that he's attending a funeral. It turned out to be Elio's. He'd woken up crying. 

That's a place he won't go tonight. 

To divert his thoughts he lights another cigarette.

Gladly, Oliver doesn't have to wait long. It can't have been more than half an hour before the light comes on again and he hears slow steps shuffling up the stairs.

Elio sees him when he rounds the last bend. He looks thin and drained, his complexion pasty, his hair greasy, his jeans almost falling off his hips. It pains Oliver to look at him.  


He has kind of expected Elio to stall or even bolt at his sight – but he doesn't. He just drags his feet up the remaining steps until he towers over Oliver who's still squatting on the half landing.

“Hey, Elio” Is all he can come up with as a greeting.

Elio's eyes staring down at him are red-rimmed and hazy – if from drugs or sleep-deprivation Oliver can't say. As he just stands there in silence he leans his shoulder against the wall as if he needs the support to keep upright.

Oliver slowly stands and touches Elio's arm.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly.

Elio doesn't move for nearly a minute before he just sinks against Oliver, resting his head against his chest. He smells of sour sweat and tobacco, Old Spice and something sharp, chemical.

It's not Elio's scent. Oliver briefly closes his eyes. He wants to hug him but doesn't dare to touch.

“Why are you here?” Elio mumbles into his shirt. “Are you really here?” He brings his hands up to Oliver's biceps and tries to squeeze.

His hands are shaking, his fingers too weak and twitchy to really hold on.

“I'm here to take you to New York.” Oliver blurts out, opening his eyes. They are stinging. His chest hurts, his heart beating fast against his ribcage.

If Oliver has expected a loud protest or Elio categorically refusing, he's in for a surprise. Because Elio just sighs, nodding almost imperceptible.

“Yeah.” He breathes.

Okay, Oliver thinks. Okay, calm down. First, you have to take care of him. 

“Good. Great. Tomorrow. But I think right now you should maybe rest a little. Can you open the door?”

Elio fishes in his pockets for his key but it takes him some effort to find the lock. Oliver keeps an arm around his shoulders to steady him. It feels like holding a little bird.

Suddenly Oliver remembers when he'd been a kid and his parents had sent him away to Summer camp somewhere in Massachusetts ( _'to make him a man'_ as his father had put it). He'd absconded regularly from the scheduled activities to hide in the woods where he one day had found a fledgling that must have fallen out of its nest. It had looked so fluffy but when Oliver had picked it up it had trembled in his palm and Oliver had felt every delicate bone in its tiny body. It had died while he'd held it and Oliver had buried it, shoveling a shallow pit with his bare hands.

Why is he now reminded of this? He hadn't thought about it in almost twenty years...

Elio's apartment is almost empty. There's a mattress with a sleeping bag on the floor; a built-in closet and a single wooden chair are the only furniture in the main room. Through a door Oliver sees what seems to be a kitchen. Another door leads into a tiny, windowless bathroom. The air smells of mold and unwashed male.

Elio staggers inside and collapses onto the makeshift bed, not even bothering to remove his shoes as he curls himself up under the threadbare sleeping bag. Oliver drops his bag on the chair and looks around. But there's nothing to see, just paint peeling from the walls and a dirty window.

“Do you need something? A glass of water?”

Elio makes a sound between a groan and a sigh. Oliver nonetheless walks over into the kitchen and opens a few cupboards in search of a glass or a mug. All he finds is a chipped bowl. There's not even something remotely edible. Everything is covered in greasy dust. Oliver has no idea what Elio survives on but he surely has never cooked anything on this stove. There's not even a fridge. He lets the water run for a minuet before filling the bowl. When he returns to the other room and sets it down next to Elio, he's already asleep.

Oliver hesitates a moment, unsure what to do. It's getting light outside and as there are no curtains or blinds in front of the windows the sun starts to flood the apartment. Despite his relief of having found Elio if not well but at least alive, Oliver is dead on his feet. But there's no way he's getting onto Elio's mattress, which looks even more questionable than the one he remembers fucking him on in the attic in B.

There might even be fleas crawling over the sleeping bag, feeding from the haggard body rolled into a tight ball by now.

In the end, Oliver dares to open the closet. In it he finds a large towel among the few items of clothing Elio seems to own, worn thin but better than nothing. He spreads it onto the floor next to the sleeping boy, decidedly ignoring a spoon and a tealight in the corner just behind the mattress, grabs his bag to use as a pillow, lies down and falls asleep immediately.

He has no idea how long he's slept but when he wakes the room is bright and Elio is up, sitting cross-legged on the mattress, still dressed in Converse, jeans and a baggy t-shirt.

Oliver wants to avert his eyes but forces himself to look as Elio, one hand balled into a fist, sinks a needle in his arms and presses the plunger down. His face relaxes visibly within a second, going from tense to slack.

It's both harrowing and fascinating at the same time.

“Elio.” Is all Oliver can say. Everything hurts.

Elio pulls the needle out and presses his palm against the fresh prick before raising his head and looking at him. Oliver can't stop staring at the discarded syringe rolling over the worn linoleum.

“This was my last hit. Just to say good-bye, you know.” Elio's voice sounds raw; he slurs a little. But then he scrambles to his feet and walks over to the closet. When he starts to stuff everything he owns into a plastic bag Oliver gets up as well, his joints creaking. His mouth is dry and tastes like ash so he first downs the bowl of water before he asks if he can use the bathroom. He takes his holdall with him. After one look into the moldy cubicle he decides against a shower and just washes his face, brushes his teeth and changes into fresh clothes.

When he reemerges Elio has thrown on a dark green parka, the half-full plastic bag dangling from his right hand.

“Let's go.” Is all he says before he turns and walks out. It's Oliver who pulls the door shut behind them. Elio is already halfway down the stairs, as if fleeing his old life as fast as he can.

“Shall we get something to eat?” Oliver asks as they meet on the pavement outside but Elio just shakes his head.

“Just... let's get away from here, okay?” He has to squint against the sun and Oliver asks himself how long it's been that he was outside during the day. “I don't have money for the flight right now but I can-”

Oliver makes a gesture to shut him up. “It's okay. Let's just get a taxi to the airport.”

They make it on a flight in the early afternoon and land in New York shortly before midnight, reaching the apartment in Greenwich village around one in the morning. Elio has slept the whole flight, his head resting against Oliver's shoulder, while Oliver had stayed awake and marveled why it had been so easy and why he hadn't done this sooner.

Therefore, he's bone-tired while for Elio it's only early evening.

“There's toast in the kitchen and juice in the fridge. I'm sorry but I think I have to go to bed. I'll give you the grant tour tomorrow. You can sleep here with me or I can take the couch.” Oliver feels barely conscious anymore.

Elio says he isn't hungry but pours himself some juice while Oliver takes off his jeans. He thinks he should shower but postpones it till the morning as he crawls under the covers while Elio sits on the edge of the mattress, skipping through the channels of the TV. He's shivering a bit, a thin sheen of sweat forming on his face, glistening in the low light form the screen.

“You okay?” Oliver asks but he's simply too knackered to be too concerned.

When Elio nods before reaching down to scratch his ankle, Oliver tells himself he will just close his eyes for a few minutes to rest.

Elio's here, with him. Safe.

That's all that matters.

Now everything will be fine.

God, he's so naive. Because this will soon turn into the worst night of his life, preceding the worst week he's ever had.

Purgatory starts at around three in the morning when Oliver jerks awake because there's noise coming from the bathroom. It sounds as if someone has pulled down the shower curtain along with its rail – which is precisely what has happened, Oliver discovers, as he stumbles upon Elio, half lying on the tiles in front of the bath tub, his body heaving and spasming. It takes Oliver a moment to realize that Elio is retching violently until he starts to throw up. Only a small portion actually hits the tub, the rest of his sick spraying all over the place – the sink, the walls, the toilet, the mirror, the ragged shower curtain.

This isn't Rome where Oliver had held him, smirking while Elio had been so drunk he couldn't hold his liquor. He'd even kissed him afterwards.

He wouldn't dream of it now.

Oliver has no idea where all the puke is coming from – Elio has virtually eaten nothing all day, not even what passes for food on the plane. Yet he's gagging and gagging, heaving up greenish-yellow bile.

The smell is bad – but the sounds he makes are worse. He's somewhat keening, grunting, while his body convulses with cramps. Elio has lost all control of his basic bodily functions and it's terrifying.

Oliver tries to help him as best he can, getting covered in vomit while holding Elio's face up, hugging his twitching body to prevent him from hitting his head on the tiles and injuring himself.

It's vile. It's frightening.

Even as Elio seems totally exhausted, his body limp and drained, the spasms don't cease. He's crying by now, visibly in pain, but his body doesn't obey him any longer. He's a total mess in a pool of sick, almost passing out from exhaustion, snot and sick mixed with tears and sweat dripping from his chin.

“Oliver, please...” He chokes out, his face contorting in panic as he struggles to breath through the sobs. “Help me, please. Give me something. Make it stop.”

And Oliver would if he could. But he can't. All he can do is watch Elio disintegrating, losing his last shred of dignity while he holds him, brushing his hair from his face in a futile attempt to keep it somewhat clean.

Oliver has no idea how long it takes until the throwing up finally subsides. Elio is still trembling as if he has a fever though. Carefully, Oliver props him up in a sitting position while Elio clings to him like he is a life raft.

“It's okay. I'm just getting you a glass of water.” He fills a tooth mug from the tab but Elio's hands shake so badly that he spills half of it before Oliver takes it from him and puts it against his lips, sitting next to him on the slimy tiles as he helps Elio to slowly sip it.

Elio brings it all up just about ten seconds later.

Afterwards, he breaks down, coiling in on himself on the cold, smeared tiles. Oliver squats next to him, his back against the bathtub, about to start crying himself. He's reeking, tired, helpless and shocked. The bathroom is filthy. Elio is only half-conscious, visibly on the verge of passing out.

What is he supposed to do?

“I think I'll call an ambulance.”

“No, please...” Sick mixed with spit bubbles form Elio's mouth. He tries to get up but slips. “I'll clean this up. I promise... no hospital... please.” His voice sounds raw and broken.

Elio tries again to scramble up on all fours but he's too weak, breaking down again, howling like a wounded animal before biting his hand to silence himself.

“I'm sorry...” He whispers.

Oliver takes a deep breath. “No need. Lets clean you up.”

He strips off his sullied t-shirt, then undresses Elio completely.

He tries not to look too closely but Elio is emaciated. Bruises in differing shades from black-blue to pale yellow cover his body.

There's a dark brownish mark on his left shoulder blade the size of a quarter.

Oliver averts his eyes, concentrating on both of them not falling down.

He helps Elio into the bath tub, then clambers in behind him, takes the shower head off its hook and waits until the water is lukewarm before running it over Elio's thin body. They crouch down in the tub, Elio's head bend forward as he's hugging his knees, unmoving, just barely breathing, his spine slowly heaving, the ridges of his vertebrae so sharp Oliver fears they might pierce his white skin.

_'Don't look.'_

That fucking stain on his shoulder blade can't be washed away, no matter how hard Oliver scrubs it with a sponge. He refuses to search for more.

It's not what he thinks it is. It can't be.

When Oliver is sure he's cleaned Elio completely he helps him up, wraps him in a towel and guides him over to the bed, tugging him in. He gets a bucket from the kitchen cupboard, placing it next to the mattress before putting on fresh underwear and jogging pants, returning to the bathroom to scrub it floor to ceiling with bleach.  


When he's finished the sun rises over New York City. At least Elio has fallen asleep.

Oliver by now feels too keyed up to rest, despite a bone-deep fatigue making him sluggish. His skin prickles all over and his head pounds, yet somehow he knows he has to stay awake should Elio need him. So he drinks coffee in the kitchen until he hears Elio retching again.

He just hopes he hit the bucket this time.

This is how the next days go by. Elio is sick, feverish or passed out. When Oliver forces food or drink down his throat it comes up again only moments later. He shivers and his temperature goes up. At other times he's cold as ice, his skin clammy. He doubles over in pain, cramps shaking his worn-out body. His skin becomes flaky with dehydration, his eyes are red and his lips parched and dry.

When Oliver leaves on Tuesday for half an hour to go groceries shopping (Elio's been asleep when he's left) he finds him naked on the floor of the apartment's hallway upon his return, sitting in a pile of Oliver's jackets and coats, going through his pockets.

Looking for cash.

“Stop this, please, stop this.” Oliver puts his bag down and tries to get Elio back to bed but he screams and kicks and begs until breaking down crying in the end, promising to do anything if Oliver would just give him $ 20 for a hit. A last hit.

He swears it on his mother's life.

When Oliver refuses he starts to bang his head against the wall.

That's when Oliver is tempted to just run away. Or throw him out. Leave Elio to succumb to his fucking addiction.

He might have yelled a little at Elio after that, he's not sure because he's feeling like a zombie by that point.

They end up in a pile of limbs, Oliver holding Elio down at first and then just holding him.

Oliver doesn't dare to leave his side after that. He stays with him, tries to feed him, massages his aching limbs, wraps him in blankets or carries him into the bath to cool him down with icy water.

He even has to help him on the toilet, closing his eyes at first but after a few days it becomes kind of normal to wipe his ass while Elio sits bend over, gasping in pain as his bowels play up. This also reminds Oliver of Rome and he's suddenly glad that Elio had done what he did back then, though it had seemed a little gross at the time. Now he has to admit that it somehow assures him that he's not unduly invading Elio's privacy as they share this experience that's even more intimate than sex.

There's a stylized peach tattoo on his buttock Oliver remembers spotting in some of his movies. Back then he'd thought it cute and a little cheeky. Now it makes him sad.

Oliver doesn't sleep more than five hours over the next two days. He feels nothing anymore, not even tired, getting by on auto-pilot, forgetting to eat or drink himself. He has to remind himself that he needs food but he doesn't care what it is he stuffs into his mouth during the precious minutes Elio is unconscious.

On Thursday morning the fridge is empty again. He's even run out of coffee.

Thank god Elio slowly seems to get better. He's only complaining about a blinding headache so Oliver gives him Taladine he still possesses because of the operation he had shortly before traveling to Italy. It makes Elio instantly feel better and it's only then that Oliver realizes he's provided him with a mild opioid.

It can't be helped now. The medicine offers them both a much needed respite. Oliver is able to run to a small supermarket to do some shopping after making Elio promise to stay in bed. Afterwards he sleeps for six hours straight and almost feels like born again upon waking up. 

He always locks the apartment door and keeps the key hidden when at home.

By Friday evening the pills are gone. But they were a blessing. Elio slept as well and is now able to ingest soup, toast and tea (with five spoons of sugar).

He's so frighteningly skinny that Oliver's hand can wrap around his thigh.

On Saturday, Oliver gets them bagels with thick cream cheese and hot chocolate for breakfast while Elio is still asleep. Elio looks mildly panicking upon his return, standing half-naked in the living room, but a smile lights up his face when Oliver waves the bag and paper cups at him.

“I... I thought you were gone. That you'd left me. Where were you?”

“Just stocking up.” Oliver is alarmed because he's not sure if he can believe Elio but also somewhat elated that he got up and is able to stand on his own two feet.

Small steps.

After breakfast he suggests a walk through the village.

Elio rummages through his plastic bag in search of clean clothes and comes up with a bright red hoodie and a Pink Floyd t-shirt. He has to borrow socks and underwear from Oliver.

Once outside, he makes it as far as two blocks before he needs to rest, so they sit in a bakery. Oliver gets him a doughnut and another hot chocolate and Elio complains that he's not a child but only after inhaling both and licking his fingers clean.

The Spring sun is bright today and they buy Elio a pair of fake Ray Bans on a street stall.

Afterwards, Elio seriously demands an espresso and luckily they find an Italian place that is up to his standards.

“I love New York.” He sighs after downing the thick dark liquid in one go.

Oliver can't help but smile.

Things are somewhat easy but he's aware that this doesn't mean Elio is over it. Maybe, hopefully, just the worse lies behind them.

In the evening, they cook together, just spag bol with Elio mostly watching and stirring the pasta but it feels like a huge step, almost normal. They end up on the couch afterwards with orange juice Oliver has opted for as he doubts Elio should drink alcohol in his state (though he'd eyed a bottle of red longingly).

Elio is turning his glass around and around while Oliver tries to read the New York Times from the pile accumulated during the last week but is too lethargic to really take in the words as they start to dance before his eyes. It's just half past eight but he feels drowsy.

“Can I ask you something?” Elio interrupts him but he doesn't mind.

“Sure.” Oliver puts the paper down.

“After all the things I said to you... the last time... why did you come for me?”

Fuck, Elio doesn't beat around the bush. Oliver braces himself as he answers: “I just had to. I was getting too worried. I couldn't go on like this.”

Elio nods, biting his lip. “Me neither.”

Silence.

“Can I ask you something in return?”

Elio shrugs and spreads his hands in a very Italian gesture.

“Why did you never say anything when calling me?”

Elio hunches his shoulders. “I couldn't. What was there to say? I just wanted to hear your voice. Did you know it was me all along?” He looks up from below his fringe.

“Only after San Francisco. I was a bit slow.”

They smile at each other.

“Thank you.” Elio says eventually. “I know it was... a lot last week.” His voice is very low, almost inaudible.

“Well... uhm.” Oliver has no idea what to say. Over the last seven days he has formulated speech after speech in his head while mopping up sick and worse, washing bed sheets and compulsively making tea that had ended up in a bucket - if he'd been lucky. No, not speeches, rants! He'd been so angry at this stupid boy sometimes who threw away his gifts and then relied on others' sympathy to sort his mess out. What a selfish little fucker, expecting others to rescue him...

The anger has kept him going, has enabled him to be there for Elio through all of it.

But now his tongue feels tied. Because he knows that all these accusations will sound pathetic and self-pitying. Because, yes, it hadn't been fun to help Elio onto the toilet in the middle of the night, watch his body cramp, listen to him sob and beg for just one more hit, hearing him promise it would be the last time, hearing him scream that his body was on fire, that he was freezing, that ants were crawling beneath his skin, eating his brain, that his head felt like exploding – but Oliver had just been the one to witness it.

Elio had been the one to go through it and came out alive on the other side.

Willowy thin, weak, and with a large dark mark on his back – but alive. For now.

Oliver can't quite imagine the agony he must have been in despite having watched his struggle.

So he can't bring himself to blame Elio. But apparently he has nothing else to say either.

In the end Elio just nods.

“Okay. That's... okay. I...” He falls silent again, moving away from Oliver on the couch until he sits in the far corner. “Do you mind... can I call my parents? Tomorrow? Then I'll get out of your hair. Promised. I think I still know some people over here. I'm sure I could crash with them for a while. And Doug made me an offer so-”

“What?” Oliver has to shake his head to clear his somewhat clouded mind. What is Elio talking about? “No, I didn't mean... look, it feels like my brain has turned into cotton wool. Can we just... maybe... I don't know... talk about this some other time? I didn't mean for you to leave. I'm just... I don't know. Not ready. Exhausted. Maybe a little furious. And still worried as fuck.”

“Okay...” Elio says again but he sounds doubtful.

“I mean it. Really. But... what is this thing with Doug?” To Oliver, this line of conversation seems like the safest ground right now.

“Oh, nothing. It's … not important.” Elio takes a sip of his juice.

“What did he offer you?” Oliver doesn't let go.

It takes a moment for Elio to answer. “You remember when I told you he wouldn't let me use my stage name because it's owned by Hammer Films? Well, he said if I got clean and fulfilled my contract and did one last movie for him I could have it. I wouldn't get paid for the last one but afterwards I'd be free to built my own career with it, wherever I wanted.” He's smiling a little but it seems unsure, as if he's waiting for something, maybe a reaction from Oliver.

All Oliver can think about is the brown spot on his shoulder blade that by now is the shape of a small Mediterranean island. There might even be more growing on his body; Oliver didn't dare to look too closely over the last few days. The wrath he hoped he had metabolized suddenly bubbles to the surface. Because how fucking ignorant can this kid be?

“You can't be serious!” His voice is so loud that Elio jumps, dropping his glass. Orange juice soaks into the couch that doesn't even belong to Oliver. It's the last straw that makes him snap. “Fuck! Just... look what you've done!” He bellows, his voice ringing in his ears.

Elio scoots even further back and gets up, running for the kitchen. But he's still weak and stumbles against the coffee table, knocking over Oliver's glass as well. It shatters on the hardwood floor where the juice forms a sticky puddle.

“Sorry, I'm so sorry...,” Elio's kneeling down, reaching for the shards, starting to gather them up with his bare fingers, his voice trembling.

“For fuck's sake!” Oliver yells and Elio freezes, making a small sound as he crouches on the ground in front of Oliver, head bend low. Oliver takes one of Esther's cushions and impulsively throws it against the book shelf at the far wall before bringing himself to look down again.

Elio is staring up at him after a moment, wide-eyed, his small face pinched and chalk-white. He looks like a frightened, hurt animal.

A sight only amplified by the blood dripping from his balled fist, darkening the pool of juice at his knees a hazy violet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Oliver hears while waiting for Elio is actually 'Rock Me Amadeus' by Falco which went to number one in the first week of Arpil 1986 in the US charts.
> 
> I'll be travelling the next few days so there won't be an update before next week. But at least they are together now. It will get more uplifting soon, promised.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets fluffy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry, I know the last chapter was pretty tough. Now it's slowly getting lighter.
> 
> I know nothing about medical facts. I tried to do my research but this is fiction so forgive inaccuracies.
> 
> The lovely [ Leili ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leili) posted some songs in the comments that they associate with this story and I really like to share them because I think they are brilliant. 
> 
> Sober _ Tool ♡ https://youtu.be/hglVqACd1C8
> 
> The lost child _ Anathema https://youtu.be/OfzFSXYH3GA
> 
> Last light _ Soen https://youtu.be/iAKlgmYmdp8
> 
> Lunatic soul _ Lunatic soul https://youtu.be/IIVRPEnOi9I
> 
> Before _ Riverside https://youtu.be/eDxj1naJZtQ
> 
> Begin the end _ Placebo https://youtu.be/jtBTzyeVSOw
> 
> Global warming _ Gojira https://youtu.be/x5RQ2IXPRpk
> 
> Le ́efant sauvage _ Gojira https://youtu.be/BGHlZwMYO9g
> 
> Coma _ Buckethead featuring Azam Ali and Serj Tankian https://youtu.be/5kj0rVQoc0k
> 
> Lights _ Archive https://youtu.be/yLuOzNeHw5I
> 
> By and down _ A Perfect Circle https://youtu.be/sfIMtLj8Qqk
> 
> 3 Libras _ A Perfect Circle https://youtu.be/q-3X8brcVwM
> 
> Sorry for the ugly links, I'm too tired to make them pretty, just use copy/paste :)
> 
> That being said, there are some music references in this chapter, including a mix tape (I know some of you are interested in this kind of stuff). Links in the end notes.

“Shit! What have you done!” Oliver is up and runs over into the kitchen himself now, getting a few tea towels. Only as he wraps one around Elio's bleeding hand does it occur to him that this might not be a very good idea. He stops, looking down at both their hands, smeared with blood, and swallows.

“What?” Elio asks, and he sounds so broken that Oliver thinks he'll start crying himself if he has to hear this voice again. He knows it's probably the stress and exhaustion and the pent-up anger and the helplessness he's experiencing but he's just too tired and drained to reign it in.

“I... you have...” He can't say it. His head spins. The room smells of oranges and iron and faintly of the bleach he used all week to clean up after Elio. It reminds him of a hospital. Of sickness and of death.

“What?” Elio sounds confused now.

Oliver suddenly drops his hand and sits back on his heels. “You have a dark mark on your shoulder blade that wasn't there... before... It's new. You know what that means, right?”

Elio blinks. And blinks. His eyes are blood shot. The tea towel around his right hand slowly soaks through, a crimson blotch spreading on the white linen like an especially gory Rorschach test.

“But that's not... I can't... I got tested in San Francisco...,” he mumbles to himself.

“When?” Oliver asks.

“Before we met in February. I told you.” He sounds defensive, almost accusatory now, as if it's all Oliver's fault. Maybe it is?

“That's over two months ago.”

“But I didn't... I didn't have penetrative sex afterwards, I swear!” Elio's voice rises an octave.

Oliver stares at him and wonders if he can believe him. “It's also transmitted via used needles. Have you been careful with them as well?”

“I...” Elio's face falls.

Silence stretches between them.

What is there to say?

“Fuck.” Elio breathes eventually before slowly getting up. “I... I take care of this first,” he waves his injured hand, “and then I'll clean up here.”

He stumbles over into the bathroom and closes the door behind himself. He stays in there for a very long time.

Oliver waits, gives him space; goes into the kitchen to wash his own hands; starts scrubbing the juice from the couch cushions but leaves the bloodied puddle on the floor for Elio. Yet he puts on his leather winter gloves and carefully picks up the glass shards, wrapping them into a page of the New York Times he's been reading - what, like fifteen minutes ago? - before throwing them into the bin. He even changes out of his bloodied jeans and sweater.

When the bathroom door is still locked almost half an hour after Elio went inside Oliver dares to tentatively knock.

“Elio?”

No answer.

“Elio, please, I'm getting worried.”

He hears shuffling on the other side and then the door opens a fraction. Elio is holding his right arm with his left.

“It doesn't stop bleeding.”

Oliver stares at his outstretched arm and the deep cut from his thumb over his palm, still oozing, but luckily not as badly as before.

“I think you might need stitches.”

It's almost eleven o'clock when they get finally admitted to see a nurse at Beth Abraham Hospital ER. They had to make their way all over to the Bronx by various taxis because they'd been turned down at every other hospitals at which they'd asked to get Elio admitted.

After the third unsuccessful attempt where the receptionist had almost called security when they didn't leave fast enough a young Doctor had told them to go and check out the Bronx. They would deal with 'such cases' he'd said.

Elio's eyes look a little glassy when they finally walk though the sliding doors of Beth Abraham. Oliver knows right away why they were sent here.

Hollow-cheeked men stare up at them, their eyes vacant and clouded. They are emaciated, some with only patches of hair left, dark-brown spots covering every visible part of their skin. Even the strong smell of disinfectant can't drown out the stench of human decay.

A young Asian nurse walks over to them and hands them a clipboard. Elio can't fill out the form pinned to it. His hand, wrapped in just another towel, looks swollen and sore by now, covered in dried blood. They weren't even offered a bandage at their previous stops.

Oliver fills in Elio's name and his own address.

“Date of Birth?” He asks, only now realizing that he never knew.

“March 10th, 1966.”

That was just last month.

“Well, happy birthday... belatedly.”

Elio frowns. “Thank you... I guess.”

Oliver blushes, swallows. “Do you have insurance?”

Elio just nods and tries to get a piece of paper from inside his leather jacket, twisting uncomfortably as he has to use his left hand. When his face contorts in pain Oliver helps him, feeling for his inner breast pocket to retrieve a folded letter.

He dots down a few numbers, hoping it's what the hospital needs to treat Elio.

“Blood group?”

“O.”

“They ask for previous drug use here.” Oliver has to swallow again, keeping his eyes on the form.

“Tell them.” Elio is staring down at his own feet.

Oliver writes _'heroin'_ and checks the box for intravenous. The word stares back at him with grim implications.

“Status?”

“What are the options?”

“Positive, negative, unsure.”

Elio needs a moment. “Unsure.” He whispers.

They wait in silence after completing the form. It doesn't take long.

Soon, another nurse takes them into a tiny treatment room. She pulls on two pairs of latex gloves before gently disinfecting Elio's hand, gives him a shot of Lidocaine right into the palm and starts stitching up his wound. Oliver sits next to him, an arm around his shoulder to keep him steady because he fears Elio might otherwise keel over.

Afterwards, the nurse wants to give Elio a jab against Tetanus and asks him to roll his sleeve up. When she sees his fading track marks she looks from him to Oliver, then on the form they filled out, then back again.

“I got clean last week.” Elio tells her in a low voice. He sounds on the verge of passing out.

“How are your veins?”

“The right arm should be okay.”

Elio can't make a fist so the nurse pulls a tourniquet tight. Oliver has to look away as she sinks the needle into Elio's flesh.

As she finally wraps a bandage around Elio's hand she asks him why it took them so long to come to the ER after he'd cut himself.

That's when Oliver loses it. “Because no one wanted to help him! No hospital admitted him.”

Elio touches his arm to calm him.

“No, it's true. They acted as if you've got Bubonic plague and leprosy combined! It's a shame. He needed help but three ERs turned us down because we were two guys and I was holding Elio, and he's so thin and pale, and there are those fucking track marks all over his arms so when they asked we mentioned that maybe – MAYBE – he might have... AIDS.”  


Oliver spits the last word out.

The nurse sits down again on her stool, studying the clip board. Elio rests his head against Oliver's shoulder while he holds him around the waist.

“I see you wrote 'unsure'. You want a test done?” The nurse looks at Elio, who's staring at his bandaged hand.

After a moment he sighs “Yes.” Oliver pulls him a little closer.

“Okay, I just have to take a blood sample.”

She gets a new syringe, searching for another vein while Elio balls his left hand into a fist. This time, Oliver forces himself to look.

The nurse fills three barrels with Elio's blood; dark red – and possibly deadly.

Afterwards she tells them that they'll have the results in a week. She also hands them a few leaflets Oliver just stuffs in the pocket of his jacket as they eventually leave.

Back at the apartment they fall into bed together, still dressed. Oliver's asleep before his head hits the pillow.

The next week is the longest of Oliver's life.

They sleep late on Sunday so Oliver cooks breakfast. Both seem to try to act normal which results in them both behaving oddly, too polite, saying thank you maybe once or twice too often. Elio even tries to clean up the by now encrusted puddle of juice mixed with his blood but his bandaged hand hinders him so in the end Oliver pulls on the kitchen gloves and starts scrubbing while Elio kneels next to him, holding a bowl of soapy water slowly turning orange. They succeed in removing most of it but a dark stain remains which they cover with Esther's rag rug that usually lies in front of the bookshelf. It'll do.

The apartment feels stuffy with fear and uncertainty. Elio lies on the couch, curled up under a blanket, staring at the ceiling. When Oliver tries to talk to him he gets monosyllabic answers – at best.

In the afternoon Oliver flees for a run along the Hudson, passing Christopher Street with its rainbow flags all over the place. Should he and Elio go down here sometime? Would men recognize him? Is this where they belong now?

He runs a little faster.

He’s glad he’s going back to work on Monday, even if it means leaving Elio alone for the day. He knows he has to trust him – though it’s hard. It’s pretty easy to score drugs in New York. Oliver has even given Elio some money on Saturday so he can do shopping, get food or clothes or whatever he needs – but of course he could also use it to buy heroin. Or he could sell some of the stuff in the apartment – Esther's got a pretty good stereo, for example – if he needed cash.

Therefore it's not easy for Oliver to say good-bye on Monday morning – not only because he worries; also because he’s spent the last ten days exclusively with Elio, sometimes in a pretty bad state, but they made it through and now it feels like they are joined at the hip. They slept in the same bed – when they slept – and even if nothing sexual has happened Oliver can't deny that they have developed a strong physical and mental bond.

Something is growing between them despite all the shit they are in and Oliver misses it instantly after pulling the door close behind him. The last thing he sees is Elio hunched over his coffee mug at the kitchen table, his bandaged right hand clumsily trying to shovel sugar into the dark hot brew.

He’s left him a spare pair of keys as well so he can get out and about.

Trust, Oliver reminds himself. _‘You need to trust him.’_

The day goes by in a blur. Colleagues ask him carefully about his family emergency and he has to think a moment before coming up with a white lie. Some ask if it’s Claire and that reminds Oliver that he should maybe tell them that they are getting divorced – but then he can’t bring himself to do it, not after the last week. He’s emotionally exhausted, bled dry, unable to deal with more outbursts of feelings such a statement would surely trigger.

He has no idea what to expect when he returns home around six in the evening. He has refrained from calling Elio, checking in on him. He’d given him his number at the university instead – in case of an emergency.

So when he opens the door he’s kind of surprised to hear loud music playing – it’s not one of his records, so maybe it’s from Esther’s collection – and a spicy smell wafting through the apartment.

He finds Elio in the kitchen, nursing a glass of red wine while stirring something in a pot.

“Hey.” He walks up behind him and puts a hand on his waist. Elio jumps a little.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.” He looks a bit puzzled.

“No wonder. Who’s that?” Oliver nods in the direction of the living room where the record is playing.

“Sonic Youth.”

“Never heard of them.”

“I… kinda like them. Listen.”

There’s a man’s voice reciting what sounds like a poem over noisy, almost dissonant guitars.

_‘I cannot move, everything is about broken_  
_Blood everywhere, mixing with oil and gas_  
_What's moving, must turn my head_  
_Pain, white light, blinded’_

Oliver raises his eyebrows. “Okay…” He says slowly.

“It’s kind of how I feel…” Elio concentrates on putting a teaspoon of dried herbs into the pot. “Like I’ve been in a car crash over those last few months.” He briefly rests his head against Oliver’s shoulder before turning back to the stove. “The record's called _Evol_. That's LOVE spelled backwards.”

Oliver swallows, staring at Elio's nape before peaking over his shoulder but doesn't let go of him. Aren't they doing love backwards as well? They fucked first and got to know each other much later.

“I didn’t know you could cook.” He changes the subject, venturing into lighter territory.

Elio gladly accepts it. “According to Mafalda, I can’t. But it’s just a pasta sauce. I needed something to do.” He stirs the bright red mass that smells of garlic and chili and oregano.  


Oliver tries not to be reminded of all the blood shed on Saturday night as he reaches for the open bottle of wine on the counter and opens a cupboard to get a glass. Something seems off but it takes him a moment to realize.

“Did you… clean as well?” He gazes around the kitchen. Every surface gleams. The stuff Esther put on her counter – the coffee maker, a pepper grinder, oil, the sugar pot – stand in slightly different places.

Elio nods, biting his cheek. “As I said, I needed something to do. I also sorted the records alphabetically. That’s when I found that whoever lives here has a much better taste in music than you have.” He grins but it looks like he’s waiting for Oliver's reaction, maybe fearing he overstepped.

“Wow, that’s great.” Oliver raises his glass to clink with Elio’s.

“You sure? It’s not weird or creepy?”

“I can think of worse things than cleaning to take your mind of… things.” The wine is actually quite good. “Oh, this is nice.”

Elio nods. “Not the plonk you barbarians usually buy.” He's still grinning.

Oliver decides to set the table while Elio puts noodles into boiling water. When they sit down Oliver digs in with gusto. He doesn’t know what to expect though.

“Wow, that’s… good. Hot, but good.”

“You sure you wanna eat it?” Elio sounds a little worried.

“As I said, it’s spicy but not inedible. You’re actually not bad at this.” Oliver gestures at his food with his fork.

“No, I mean… because… you know…” Elio trails off, his eyes staring down at his hand. He has replaced the bandage with a large plaster.

“What?” Oliver puts the glass he was about to raise down. “Elio?”

“Well, some people wouldn’t put things in their mouth that I’ve touched.” He brushes a stray curl behind his ear and glances over at Oliver.

“Hey, stop that… It’s not even sure… we have to wait for the results, okay.” Oliver reaches over for him, touching his left hand.

“But you think I have it.” It's not a question. “I could see it in your eyes.”

It's true. Oliver is fairly certain that Elio is infected. His way of life over the past year outright predestines him to be HIV positive, doesn't it? And now there's that mark on his skin... But Oliver has successfully avoided thinking about what this really means, apart from certain death, which is bad enough.

He's forbidden himself to ponder the true implications of an infection. The treatments Elio might need, the progression of the disease, his medication, the costs, the logistics, if he's mentally and physically prepared to care for a fatally ill Elio...

If he would plan the funeral or Sammy and Annella? Would Elio get buried in Italy or the US?

How is one to deal with these issues, watching the most important person in your life die?

No wonder Oliver tries to push these thoughts away. Yet the uncertainty is starting to get to him. It's no use, he reminds himself over and over. For now, all he can do is ignore the sword of Damocles hanging over both of them.

Oliver interlaces their fingers. “We’ll see, okay? Let’s just eat now as long as it’s hot.”

They empty the bottle of wine on the sofa, sitting close, Elio again curled up under a blanket because he always seems to be cold.

Afterwards they go to bed, watching an episode of 'Moonlighting' until Oliver can hear Elio softly snore.

There’s no question of either of them sleeping on the couch. They share the double bed and at least Oliver is very pleased with this arrangement.

The next day a faculty meeting is canceled so Oliver returns home earlier, kind of curious if Elio is still possessed by the cleaning bug – the apartment could need it, no doubt.

But Oliver is greeted with silence. No sign of Elio. Shit!

Worry floods his guts. Where is he? Why isn’t he home?

When Oliver drops on the couch he sees it – a tape, sitting in the middle of the coffee table. There’s a note next to it: _‘I’m out shopping. While peeling the potatoes you can listen to this.’_

Oliver grins with relief as he slides the cassette into the designated slot of the stereo. He’s expecting some more noise but what he hears is actually a bittersweet piano tune mixed with a guitar and David Byrne’s nasal voice singing over it.

Oliver turns the tape’s case in his fingers and sees that Elio has written the names of the bands and the respective songs he’s recorded on its inside in his neat cursive. Oliver doesn’t know any of them apart from the _Talking Heads_ but he’s willing to give it a try.

He’s in the middle of the second side when Elio returns, laden with brown paper bags.

“Goodness, what did you get? Are we expecting guests?” Oliver laughs as he helps Elio to put the bags down after wiping his wet hands on a tea towel.

“Sorry, I might have gotten carried away. I just had this craving for chocolate and ice cream…”

After filling the freezer compartment of the fridge with assorted tubs of such exotic flavors like Zabaione-Walnut-Peach Elio rips open a chocolate bar while putting on some coffee.

“You like it?” He nods towards the living room.

“The mix tape? Yeah… it’s… interesting.” He snitches the Mars bar from Elio’s hand and takes a bite. Elio stares at him but says nothing. “So, what did you plan for dinner, Betty Crocker?”

“Let me see what you did with the potatoes. Is it a massacre?”

Oliver hits him with the tea towel he had throw over his shoulder which leads to Elio chasing him through the apartment until he tackles him onto the bed where Oliver starts to mercilessly tickle him.

“Have mercy! I'm still hurt!” Elio waves his right hand. Oliver just grabs his wrist and flips them over, pinning Elio's arm above his head. They stare at each other, panting, their faces only inches apart, Elio's cheeks flushed and rosy, his eyes bright.

“Surrender.” Oliver whispers.

“Never!” Elio replies as his knee slides up between Oliver's legs.

This is getting dangerous.

“Elio!” Oliver warns him.

“What?” His pink mouth is turned up in an almost lascivious grin.

“Stop it.”

“Or what?” His knee is almost where Oliver wants it.

“Or I can't guarantee for my actions.”

“That's actually the opposite of a threat, Oliver.”

Elio's thigh presses against Oliver's balls and that's it. He bends down and closes the distance between them, his tongue licking tentatively at first before sliding into Elio's mouth, meeting his pliant tongue in a bolt swipe. Elio grinds against him with a quiet moan while someone sings

_And if a double-decker bus_  
_Crashes into us_  
_To die by your side_  
_Is such a heavenly way to die_

It's exactly what Oliver feels in this moment. If Elio is infected he almost hopes he catches it too. Because he doesn't want to be parted from Elio ever again. And if the only way to achieve that is to die together – so be it.

When he married Claire he'd sworn to love, to honor, and to cherish her. He'll never be able to marry Elio but this kiss still feels like sealing an oath. He's pledging himself to Elio, for better or worse...

Elio shoves at him and they break apart, Oliver unwilling to let go, sucking on Elio's bottom lip. “Oliver.” Elio stares up at him, looking both dazed and shocked. “Oliver...” His voice is weak.

“Shhh. It's okay. Don't worry. _Ani l'dodi, ve dodi li._ " Oliver whispers back, his hand caressing Elio's cheek, his neck. “ _I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine._ ”

Elio scoffs but his face is soft. “I know. My Hebrew is way better than yours.” He sounds mildly indignant.

“I thought you were Jews of discretion.”

“Fuck off.”

Oliver giggles. “God, you're a brat...” and is about to dive in again when they hear something rattling, loud and metallic, followed by a sharp hiss.

“Shiiiiit!” Oliver rolls over and gets up, running into the kitchen, Elio's bright laughter accompanying him. “Those fucking potatoes!” He almost burns his hands as he puts the lid back onto the overboiled pot, cursing all the while.

They tiptoe around the elephant in the room until Friday, spending the evenings together in some sort of almost unreal domestic idyll filled with music, wine, food and some innocent cuddling. It feels like a last respite, a bubble they both need to sustain to stay sane.

Oliver is aware that Elio is restless sometimes, fidgeting, unable to concentrate on a movie for example, mixing up the characters and story lines. When Oliver is reading him an article from the newspaper he often asks midway what it's about again. Oliver has to remind himself that Elio just got clean and that surely the urge for drugs is still strong, distracting him.

Elio doesn’t sleep well this week, tossing and turning until Oliver pulls him close and holds him tight. In the hazy state of half-sleep Oliver’s lips sometimes brush Elio’s temple, or Elio’s mouth seeks Oliver’s, but it’s mostly unconscious. Neither mentions it in the morning and Oliver sometimes isn’t even sure if it wasn't just a dream.

He limits their drinking to one bottle per evening and their smoking to five cigarettes. It doesn't seem enough for Elio, though, who's barely able to keep his craving in check. On Thursday, it gets so bad that Oliver takes him out for a walk at eleven at night, hoping that fresh air and movement might calm him down a little.

Yet Greenwich village late at night isn't probably what a recovering drug addict needs, with crowds of drunken people clogging the sidewalks while the smell of pot is strong.  
“So, what if they tell me tomorrow that I'm positive?” Elio asks eventually, opening a can of soda Oliver has bought him in a deli alongside with another Mars bar. They are strolling down Christopher Street but Elio doesn't seem to recognize where he is.

“It won't make any difference.” Oliver tells him and means it. But Elio looks unconvinced. “It won't make any difference.” Oliver needs him to believe it. “Let's not jump to conclusions. I know you're working on a project. Wanna tell me about it?”

Elio’s been on the phone a few times over the week. He’s spoken to his parents, telling them he’s in New York and staying with Oliver. If his parents wonder why he didn't mention it.

He’s also talked to Doug. Repeatedly. When Oliver had asked about what Elio had shrugged, shaking his head. “We’re negotiating something.”

Oliver’s not sure he likes these negotiations. But what can he say if they help Elio to believe in a future he might actually live to see? How can he condemn Elio's plans if they keep him going despite his obvious anxiety, the very real fear for his life?

“Nothing definite.” Elio dodges his question once again now. “It depends...” He waves his right hand, vaguely. It's almost healed, the thread of stitches fading. Soon there will only be a pale scar. Oliver imagines kissing; years in the future when they can both laugh about the dark period they went through.

“On what?”

“On you.” Elio holds his gaze until Oliver smiles and looks away.

“You're always so opaque, Elio.”

“Opaque. I like that.” Elio links their arms as they head back for home.

When Oliver leaves for university on Friday he hugs Elio, briefly but tight. “Call me as soon as you hear something, okay? If I’m not at the office tell my secretary to get me. You’re not alone in this, understood.”

Elio just nods, putting his hand beneath his chin. Oliver holds him a moment longer before first kissing his curls and then his mouth, just a quick peck.

“Bye.”

“Later.” Elio replies.

Oliver feels sick the whole morning, taking his impatience out on his students. They frown and exchange looks and he's sorry but can't help it. He's uptight, his muscles knotted, literally scared stiff.

The call comes at noon just as Oliver returns to his office from teaching a seminar of especially unfortunate undergrads. Peter had asked him to join him for lunch but just the thought of food made Oliver almost gag.

He's glad when he can close the office door behind himself, taking off his jacket and loosening his tie as the phone starts ringing.

Elio’s crying on the other end.

“Hey, please, calm down, Elio, please…” Oliver’s stomach drops. He feels a lump in his throat.

Shit!

No!

It won't make a difference, he reminds himself.

Yet suddenly he's not so sure anymore.

“Oliver, can you come home?” Elio chokes out.

Oliver’s already pulling his jacket back on.

“I’m on my way, Elio, just, please, don’t-“

"I’m negative.”

“What?” Oliver freezes mid-motion.

“I’m negative, Oliver.” He hears Elio’s breezy laugh bubbling up between sobs. “Please, come home. I really need you here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, allow me a short history note. Here's an article about the Beth Abraham Hospital in New York:
> 
> https://www.nytimes.com/1987/06/12/nyregion/for-new-york-aids-patients-few-places-to-ease-the-dying.html
> 
> It was a bleak time back then.
> 
> Okay, here's the music:
> 
> Sonic Youth, Evol https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ixKFo2W36So
> 
> Talking Heads, True Stories: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6c-8NWwRHU&list=PL4ZkCxBofd4VY9WTvaRVH8hw6RXUjhG2c&index=2
> 
> And, of course, The Smiths: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RI1PetsyfGM


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They celebrate (which means sexy times). Elio and Oliver have a dirty weekend.
> 
> I think by now we all deserve a little smut.
> 
> Also, Elio has a proposition for Oliver...

Oliver is lucky to catch a taxi and as it’s just midday he makes it back to Greenwich village in under thirty minutes. When he’s crashing through the door of their apartment Elio is blasting ‘Alive and Kicking’ from the stereo while lying on the couch, cigarette in one hand, a glass in the other, only wearing one of Oliver’s t-shirts and gray briefs.

He sits up quickly; too quickly for Oliver’s liking who wanted to take in his body decadently sprawled over the cushions a little longer - and for the drink in his hand. It spills over his fingers, over the fading scar, and he licks them clean to avoid dripping on the couch again.

Oliver's blood rushes south.

Elio, apparently unaware what he's doing to Oliver, giggles, throws his arms wide and sings: “ _Alive and kicking, Stay until your love is alive and kicking_!” His voice is a little off but Oliver has to grin nonetheless.

“Is that wine? At noon?” He asks.

“I deserve a little treat, don’t you think?” Elio gets up, walks over into the kitchen and pours Oliver a glass as well. Oliver can’t help but watch his little bum wiggle beneath the hem of the faded t-shirt, staring at the half exposed tattooed peach. He licks his lips as he sits down on the now vacated couch.

The song ends and there’s just the static of the blank groove until the tone arm lifts off the record. The following silence feels tense, but not in an awkward way. It's more like the air is filled with a promise, a finally, the chance of wishes coming true.

Elio returns with a huge glass of white wine that he hands Oliver, smiling down at him.

“What?” Oliver asks, gulping down the cool Chardonnay.

“Nothing.” Elio flops down next to him, pulling one leg up onto the settee. It's only mildly indecent.

“So, what did the hospital say?” Oliver turns, his whole focus on Elio.

Now it's Elio's turn to drink some wine. He must have left his cigarette in the kitchen. Oliver just hopes he put it out in an ashtray.

“I’ll live!” They clink glasses. Oliver already feels the alcohol going to his head. He hasn’t eaten anything today and his head starts swimming. “But…,” Elio puts his wine down, “I have Hepatitis B, probably contracted due to a dirty needle... or sex. _Unprotected_ sex, they called it. Whatever…” He blushes a little, shrugs. “I mean, it's not that I could get pregnant.” He tries to smile.

“And the mark on your back?” Oliver's not sure if he can allow himself to feel reassured that everything is almost, almost alright.

“That’s another thing they think I might have. They want me come back to check it. Might be psoriasis, triggered by mental stress. Or the drugs. Or the Hepatitis.” He shrugs again. “I’ll go in on Monday when they’ll give me my written results, and to see if I need treatment for the Hepatitis. Don’t want me to go yellow all over.”

“Thank god!” Oliver empties his glass and Elio reaches for it as if to refill it but Oliver just grabs his wrist and pulls him close, almost in his lap.

And kisses him.

Elio makes a little sound but doesn’t resist. He tastes like wine and cigarettes and Italy and … Elio.

God, this feels so good.

Oliver cups his ass in his palms and lifts him up. He weighs next to nothing.

Elio is straddling him now, his hands gripping Oliver’s jacket while Oliver’s hands squeeze his buttocks. He imagines he can feel the tattoo there. Every cheek fits perfectly in one of Oliver's palms.

Like they used to.

Soon, they are making out like teenagers on the tattered sofa, snogging and grinding against each other, Elio blindly fumbling with Oliver’s tie.

They only come apart for a moment when Elio pulls the offending garment off.

“Bed?” Oliver asks.

“Fuck, yes.” Elio hisses.

“Not too fast?” Oliver checks in.

“Are you kidding me?” Elio throws the silk tie over his shoulder and Oliver just grabs him by the hips as he gets up, carrying his featherweight over into the bedroom. Elio’s legs lock around his waist, not letting go, so they both crash onto the mattress.

It’s a jumble of limbs and clothes as they both try to get naked in record time – Elio having an advantage over Oliver for having been just sparsely dressed in the first place – and just about a minute later it’s just skin and warmth and wetness in strategic places. They roll around in the sheets, fighting for control, rubbing their bodies against each other. Elio makes little needy noises interspersed with Oliver’s name and he never wants it to end.

He has missed this for so long.

Oliver's heart is racing when he lands on his back with Elio on top of him, their cocks pressed together, trapped between their stomachs as Elio is practically starfishing all over him, kissing his neck, yaw, mouth. He slides up a little, lifts his ass, and then Oliver experiences the delicious feeling of rubbing his cock all along Elio's cleft, eagerly searching that tight little pucker...

Elio moans, sitting up straighter, canting his hips, adjusting, lining them up, pushing back down...

“No! Stop!” Oliver almost shoves him off. Elio looks puzzled, dazed and a bit hurt.

“What?”

“We can't... just like this...” Oliver is stammering.

“Why not? I'm ready. I want to feel you. I'm not a seventeen year old virgin anymore-”

Oliver groans, leaning up on his forearms. “That's not what I mean.”

“What the fuck _do_ you mean?” Elio is sitting back on his calves, naked, his erection jutting out in front of him from a nest of dark pubes, glistening, dark pink, swollen.

“I mean we should use protection.” Oliver sighs, flopping back down onto the mattress. He knows it might kill the mood. But Elio already got Hepatitis. He's not too keen to catch that – and besides, he thinks it would just be sensible to use a condom, even as Elio is negative. Elio doesn't know that Oliver has only been with Claire since Italy – and even that had been rare encounters.

Safe sex is what every gay sex guide advocates nowadays. The leaflets are everywhere. Even 'Blue Men' handed them out. It might not be as hot and spontaneous as it used to be - but it's preferable to dying.

This is a new era – the permissive culture of casual hook-ups belongs to the past; not that Oliver has ever been a fan of this hormone-driven randomness. He's never taken sleeping with another person lightly – even if Elio seems to believe the contrary.

Elio seems to have a totally different, much more permissive attitude when it comes to sex. Is that the effect of working in the porn industry? Or is his laxness the reason why he started shooting these films in the first place? Is it youthful carelessness or conscious nonchalance?

Whatever it is, it makes him huff with indignation right now. “Listen, I'm negative, I told you-”

“The test is not one hundred percent certain. Besides, it's not clear how soon an infection can be detected. And yes, I read up on all of this during office hours this week. Because I was... I _am_ fucking scared. We're not going to take a risk.”

“That's your last word?” Elio still sounds petulant but Oliver can feel his reserve crumble.

“Yes. I've been through hell this past week. I'm not going there again. Ever.”

Elio sighs dramatically and flops down next to him, one arm thrown over his face. “Okay then, get the condoms.”

“Uhm.” Oliver cringes.

“What _now_?!” Elio sits up again and pokes him in the chest with his index finger. His erection is visibly starting to flag.

“I don't think I have... condoms... I mean, I didn't want to jinx anything between us by buying some-”

“What the fuck!” Elio starts giggling, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.  


“Sorry.” Oliver feels like being fifteen again when he'd been jerking off a schoolmate behind the bike-shed and accidentally gripped him too hard.

His inaptness had killed the mood back then and does it now again. Will he ever learn?

But Elio safes the day. “Never mind, I found some in the bathroom. Must belong to... Evelyn?”

“Esther.” Oliver is already up and on his way. “Where?”

“The cupboard under the sink.”

Oliver rummages through its contents. “Strawberry flavored?” He feels a little sick.

“Well, better than nothing, I suppose.” Elio calls out from the bedroom, lowering his voice in mock seductiveness.

It is.

Especially for oral sex, Oliver has to admit. Sucking Elio's cock tasting of sweet fruit takes him back to a special night in B. It had been peaches back then but otherwise...

This time, though, Oliver doesn't just give Elio a blow job. He's learned a thing or two from those movies he'd watched. So he flips Elio over on his belly, shoves a cushion under his hips and starts to eat him out.

At least here he can taste him, salty, musky sweat and remnants of soap; velvety tissue beneath tight muscle. Elio outright howls and ruts against his face until Oliver fears he might break his nose.

“You ready?” He asks. He's found some lotion in the bathroom as well. Now he's kicking himself that he didn't buy lube but again, he hadn't dared to assume anything – or admit that he really wanted to get it on with Elio. It had been easier to hide behind feelings of being a good friend, to support and protect him while getting rid of the drugs.

Hoping for more – after everything they've been through – would have felt like a betrayal of his good intentions.

Elio had needed someone to take care of him. Not someone lusting after him, exploiting his vulnerability.

Like Oliver had done three years ago.

Oliver knows that waiting has been the right thing to do this time.

But isn't he lucky that the waiting is over now?

“Just fuck me!” Elio almost shouts, taking him back to the here and now and a very naked, writhing body in front of him, spread out and open, his hole dark pink and wet with spit. The tattooed peach quivers as Elio’s muscles tremble with obvious need. 

Oliver tears another blister pack, rolls the condom on, slicks himself up, squeezes a thick dollop of vanilla body lotion on Elio's entrance for good measure (and doesn’t that look nice? Strawberries and cream) – and pushes it.

They both groan in unison.

God, this feels good! Oliver grabs Elio's bony hips and starts pounding into him. It's been so long.

“Shit, Oliver, I won't last-”

“Me neither. Just... let me...”

The room fills with the smell of latex, mixed with the sweet scent of vanilla and strawberries and the sharp stench of sweat.

The peach tattoo blurs before Oliver’s eyes.

It's over embarrassingly quick. But at least they both come, Oliver pulsing deep inside Elio into the strawberry condom while Elio fills his at the same time, the latex preventing him from shooting all over Esther's pillows.

They hold each other afterwards, tight, and that's maybe even better than fucking.

“Next time I'm topping.” Elio whispers, his words slurred, but now it’s because of post-orgasmic bliss.

Oliver grins against his sweaty skin and nods. “God, yes.”

Elio kisses him, hard, removing both their condoms with a pragmatic grasp, then clambers out of bed to get the wine and cigarettes. As they lie next to each other, propped up on the pillows, smoking, sipping lukewarm Chardonnay, Oliver suddenly asks: “So, what about Doug?”

Elio turns and looks at him, taking a slow drag from his cigarette.

“Why?”

“I'm just curious. Humor me.” He's aware there's a possessive undertone to his question.

Elio seems to hear it too. He grins. “Are you jealous?”

“No, I just want to know what you're up to. And just to clarify, I'm not sharing you.”

Elio grins and pokes him in the ribs. “So it's either you or Doug?”

“What did he offer you?” Oliver rolls over, out of reach.

Elio sighs, flopping back down, not looking at Oliver as he gazes at the ceiling. “I told you, he said if I did one last film for him, fulfilled my contract, then I could use the name Tim Albicocka for myself. That would make things easier in the business.”

Oliver falls silent, staring at Elio, taking in his disheveled curls, heavy eyelids, swollen lips, lose limbs. He looks sinful and debauched. Beautiful in a way he never did in his films.  


Because this is the real thing; messier, more awkward than in the movies – but so much better.

“You want to continue… filming porn?” Oliver's aware he sounds wary.

Elio sits up, suddenly looking much more serious, takes his wineglass from the nightstand and turns it in his slender fingers. “Listen, Oliver, I know you don't approve-”

“No, that's not true. Well, maybe. But,” Oliver sits up as well and takes the glass out of Elio's hand, putting it on the floor. “I just need to understand why this is what you want to do. And I need to know you're safe. Of course, it's your decision, your life...”

“So you still don't want to share it?” Elio sounds so young suddenly it undoes Oliver completely.

He can only squeeze Elio's hand, overwhelmed by all sorts of emotions. “Of course I want to share your life if you let me but... if this is what you want to do, it won't be easy for me but I'll try to respect your choices even if... I don't know...” He falls silent, totally out of his depth.

Elio stubs out his cigarette. “Actually, I had an idea.” He sounds very shy and needs to swallow a few times before he continues. “Doug really liked you. Your audition. So… how about my last film is just me... and you?”

Oliver blinks, feeling hot and cold at the same time. “Us?” His face starts to burn as he remembers Doug taking nude pics of him last year. And those had just been photographs.

“Just us, making out.” Elio leans in and softly kisses the corner of his mouth.

“And after that...?” It feels like Oliver is walking on eggshells.

“After that I have fulfilled my obligations to Hammer Films and can start to do my own stuff. Or maybe our stuff?”

Oliver pulls back a little. Elio doesn't chase him but stares at him, unblinking, intense.

“I have to think about it.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Elio nods, still holding his gaze. “I'm hungry.” He says suddenly, jumping up. “Shall I cook something?”

Oliver looks at him. He's still thin but his lean frame is filling out a bit – probably due to the large amounts of chocolate bars and ice cream he consumes. His ribs are still visible when he stretches like he does now but not protruding anymore. His arms have started to heal, the red track marks fading into light brown spots. His sunken cheeks are little fuller as well. Oliver prays he can stay away from the drugs.

Time will tell.

Time they suddenly have.

Everything they've been through over the past weeks comes crashing over him in this moment: the hurt, the pain, the fear – and the love.

“You know what? Let's go out tonight. A date. Let me buy you dinner. We never had that.” Oliver wants to. He wants to be seen with Elio on his arm. He wants to show the world how lucky he is to be with him. He wants to treat him like he deserves.

Elio grins. “Really?”

Oliver nods and salutes him with his almost empty wine glass. “Absolutely.”

“Then I just shower and... fuck, I don't have anything decent to wear. Think you'll just have to take me to KFC.”

“You like fried chicken?”

“It's my only vice.” Elio is already on his way over to the bathroom.

Oliver laughs. “No, it's fine, something casual will do. I want to take you to that nice Italian place I discovered two blocks down. 'Speranza'. You'll be fine there in jeans. Borrow one of my shirts.” Oliver absolutely loves Elio wearing his clothes.

Elio chooses a pale blue shirt that suits him great and reminds Oliver of the one he left with him in Italy. He wonders if Elio still has it?

“It's in my closet in B.” He says as he buttons up, looking at Oliver in the hallway mirror.

“Can you please stop reading my thoughts?”

“No way. They are dirty. I like that.” Elio grins.

He's right.

Dinner is amazing. Elio compliments the food and digs in like a starving man. He won't even share his tiramisu so Oliver has to get his own. They laugh and talk. It feels so... normal.

Oliver even dares to briefly hold Elio's hand on their way home.

They stop at an all-night pharmacist and Oliver is sure he ages about ten year as he buys lube and condoms form a teenager with spots manning the night counter while Elio grins from ear to ear standing next to him, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Back at the flat they slowly start to kiss in the kitchen where they both have a glass of water.

“Are you up for round two?” Elio mumbles against Oliver's lips, still tasting of sweet cream and coffee.

“Are you?”

“I'm a professional.”

“That's... good to know.”

Yet Oliver is still anxious when he's on this hands and knees in the middle of the bed, despite Elio gently stroking his back. He feels tense, full of trepidation.

“We don't have to...” Elio says before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the small of his back. “There are other things we could do...”

“No, I want...” Oliver has to close his eyes and swallow past a thick lump in his throat. “I want.”

“You're so fucking beautiful.” Elio breathes against his skin. He had insisted to keep the bedside lamp on. “I can't believe you'll let me have you.”

“I won't if you take much longer.” Oliver says between gritted teeth. He hears Elio chuckle.

“Okay. Relax.”

Oliver hears Elio squirting lube from the bottle. Suddenly, a slick hand wraps around his soft cock while the other rubs down his cleft. It’s somewhat cold and feels a little strange, being touched there by someone else. Oliver has to take a few deep breaths to get used to it.

“Shhh, it's fine.” Elio's voice is low but firm. Oliver legs start to tremble.

“Just do it.”

But Elio takes his time, pressing first one, then two fingers against Oliver's entrance, massaging the muscle. It feels good and Oliver moans.

“See, we're getting there.”

His hands are briefly gone when he rolls on the condom and Oliver takes over, fisting his own rapidly hardening cock.

“Here it comes.” Elio grips his hips with both hands as the blunt head of his cock nudges Oliver's opening. “Breathe.”

Oliver remembers both the initial pain as well as the odd feeling of being entered there when Elio slowly pushes in. He wishes he would go faster.

But Elio won’t be hastened.

“God, that condom might have been a good idea. I'm just-” He breaks off, bending down over Oliver's back to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. The angle changes and Oliver inhales sharply. That felt – intense. Not outright good but... fuck! Elio bucks his hips and Oliver grunts.

“Oh. Yeah?” Elio puts one hand on Oliver's shoulder, pushing him down. “There, yes?” He thrusts, shallow, but holy shit – Oliver can feel his cock twitch in his hand as his toes curl on the mattress.

All he can do is whimper.

“I'll make this so good for you, Oliver.” Elio whispers.

He does.

Oliver is sweating, moaning, begging when Elio eventually starts to fuck him for real, going harder and harder.

“You can... oh god. Please! More!” After that, Oliver is biting the pillow as not to scream. Elio is so deep inside him he thinks he feels him in his throat.

That thought – Elio's cock in his mouth, making him gag and choke – is enough to send Oliver over the edge. He spills all over his fingers and Elio actually slaps his ass cheek when he realizes what has just happened, scolding him: “Did I tell you to come? Now take it, you horny bastard.”

Despite having just come, Oliver can feel sudden arousal pooling low in his belly at Elio’s words. His firm forcefulness is definitely doing things to him. Unexpected things.  


Elio is pounding into him for some time longer. Oliver doesn't mind. His limbs feel like jelly. He might have forgotten how to breathe.

He barely notices when Elio comes inside him with a sharp cry and a curse.

The burn is intense when Elio pulls out a moment – or an hour? - later. Oliver's sure he should go wash and use the toilet but he's unable to coordinate his arms and legs. When Elio just snuggles up behind him, draping the duvet over them both, he can't help but fall instantly asleep.

The next morning, Elio is already awake when Oliver gets up, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee. He smirks as Oliver hobbles in.

“How are you?”

“You should know.” Oliver kisses him on the cheek and steals his cup.

“Ugh... oh my god, how much sugar did you put in it?”

“Three spoons.”

“You're disgusting.”

“And don't you love it?”

“In fact, I do.” Oliver tries to take the weight off of this statement by getting a mug for himself and filling it from the pot still on the coffee maker.

But as he turns he sees Elio watching him with a big smile on his face.

“So, have you decided? I mean, you seemed pretty keen last night-”

Oliver throws a tea towel at Elio.

“I think you should wait until you've been back from the hospital on Monday to make any plans.”

“Okay, does that mean we have a dirty weekend ahead?”

“We have.” Oliver leans over and kisses him – on the mouth this time, lingering there.

They fuck on every available surface, including the kitchen counter and the coffee table, which gives Oliver serious carpet burns from Esther's Scandinavian rag rug. As the couch is past saving anyway, it doesn't matter when Elio shoots all over it as Oliver gives him a lazy handjob on Saturday afternoon.

When he asks Elio to tie his hands up with his discarded tie still on the floor from last night Elio willingly complies, securing a tight knot behind Oliver's back before going down on him. Despite having come twice already that day, Oliver goes off like a teenager, filling his condom with an impressive load.

“Wow, okay, that really does something for you then.” Elio smiles as he kisses the inside of Oliver's thigh before climbing into his lap to untie him. Oliver presses his hot face against Elio's shoulder.

“Problem?”

“Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was just a little respite. There'll be more introspection in the next chapter.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver learns a bit more about what happened to Elio during these last three years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver celebrate Passover together in this chapter and I discovered that I know shamefully little about Jewish holidays yet I still wanted them to have this. I hope I didn't mess it up - if there are mistakes, please correct me.

Oliver accompanies Elio back to the hospital on Monday. The doctor seeing them is tired but friendly and explains that usually Hepatitis B will just go away. Only if it becomes chronic would Elio need treatment. He also offers some brochures on drug free living and safer sex.

He's not sure if the mark on Elio's back is just a minor skin irritation or maybe psoriasis. He prescribes a cortisone lotion but advises Elio to watch the spot. It might be a birthmark turned into a melanoma due to all his shirtless summers under the Italian sun. If that's the case it needs to be surgically removed. He tells Elio to have it checked regularly.

It's definitely not Kaposi's sarcoma. That's all that matters to Oliver.

Before they leave, Oliver asks to be tested as well. He grins when Elio has to leave the room, unable to watch blood being drawn from Oliver's arm as the needle pushes in.  


As they share a quick coffee afterwards they decide to celebrate the first day of Passover together on Wednesday.

They are finished early enough for Oliver to be at University in time for his first seminar. Quite a few colleagues tell him over the day that he looks much more cheerful than last week, so he finally dares to disclose that he and Claire have split up but that he's met someone new. The responses range from perplexed surprise to somewhat subdued congratulations.

Oliver carefully avoids to go into too much detail, just mentions that he's known his new partner for a few years but that it only now worked out between them. He's thankful that the English language doesn't force him to disclose the gender of said partner.

Elio's living it up in preparation for Passover. Apparently, it's a big thing in his family. It also is in Oliver's – but in a totally different way. He realizes that with a sharp pang of something achingly similar to regret when Elio tells him about the Seders they'd had in Italy, lasting long into the night. The kids had searched the Afikoman all over the villa. Elio vividly remembers scaring one if his cousins so much with stories about ghosts in the attic on one of those hunts that the poor boy had actually pissed himself, something Elio seems close to himself retelling the incident. He confesses he hated it if another kid found the piece of matzo before him. Typical only child, Oliver thinks.

Not that he ever had such fun at home. Alone with his parents, Passover had been a serious affair – if he didn't behave he'd been send to bed early, the disapproving looks of his mother following him to his room. As there were no other Jewish families around in their small town, the Blatts had celebrated all by themselves. It had been so boring sometimes that Oliver nearly cried.

He'd never liked the holiday but witnessing Elio plan their very own Seder fills him with an unknown warm sense of anticipation. It is the perfect thing for them to celebrate right now as Passover stands for a new beginning, for freedom, for overcoming suffering and misery.

As Elio has taken over meal-planning, shopping, cleaning and cooking because he has the time ( and the necessary skills), Oliver wonders what his contribution to the festivity could be?

On Tuesday afternoon he has an idea which takes him to a jeweler on 47th street. There Oliver easily finds exactly what he's been looking for.

When coming home, Oliver encounters Elio in the kitchen, going through their cupboards and throwing out their baking soda (Arm & Hammer), a stale crust of baguette, a still half-filled packet of fettuccine and Oliver's favorite musli.

He frowns. “Is that really necessary?”

Elio just gives him A LOOK. “I also vacuumed. It should be enough.” He longingly stares at the fridge where he keeps his ice cream provisions. Oliver hides his present, then basically chain smokes until it gets dark.

After sunset, he discovers Elio in the kitchen, scooping pistachio ice cream straight from the pot.

“What? I needed the sugar.”

Oliver agrees and joins him.

As they are quite broken with just Oliver's meager University salary as a source of income of course they can't afford a separate set of dishes. But Elio's nothing if not inventive. He simply buys paper plates and plastic cups to set their table the next day. He even digs up Oliver's Menorah he got from his uncle Lenny for his Bar Mitzvah and that somewhat migrated from dorm to flat share to his and Claire's apartment to end up here. The candles bath their improvised tableware in a merciful romantic light.

Their meal is the best Pesach Seder Oliver has ever had. There's matzot, horseradish, endive salad, charoset, potatoes, roasted lamb and hardboiled eggs. And wine. Good wine.  


When Elio starts to say the Kiddush Oliver feels its true meaning for the first time:

_“Blessed are you, Eternal God, Ruler of the Universe, who has kept us alive and sustained us and allowed us to reach this season.”_

They drink, they wash their hands, they eat.

As Elio recites the Haggadah, Oliver can't help but interpret the Sh'chin as AIDS.

Elio even makes him search for the Afikoman, just because Oliver has never done it. He watches with an almost childish delight as Oliver turns the apartment upside down.

After Elio has said _"L'shanah haba'ah b'Yerushalayim!”_ they both slump down on the couch, tired, full and a little tipsy. They kiss, toasting each other with the last remnants of wine, until Oliver decides it's time. He gets up and retrieves the box from its hiding place in the bedroom closet. It's black, longer than wide, with the name of the jeweler in Hebrew letters imprinted on the lid.

Suddenly, he's nervous. Maybe this is too much? But then he remembers that only a few days back he feared for Elio dying – so there's no too much.

“Here, I got you this.” Oliver offers the box to Elio who takes it, looking surprised.

“This is too big for a ring.” He grins, but his hand trembles as he shakes the box.

“Just open it.” Oliver groans, hiding his face in his hands.

After a moment he hears Elio gasp. “Wow. Oliver, that's... beautiful.”

Oliver dares to look at him again. “Do you like it? The one you wore in Italy seems to be... lost?” There's both anguish and sentiment resonating in his question.

“I pawned it to buy a buggy for Malia. Seemed to be a good enough reason.” Elio runs the silver chain through his long fingers, avoiding Oliver's gaze.

The Magen David attached to it reflects the dying candlelight.

“Can you help me fasten it?” Elio asks and Oliver does, albeit with shaking fingers.

The Star of David rests on Elio's chest, sparkling on his plain black t-shirt.

“Perfect.” Oliver whispers and kisses him.

“So, is this a promise... for something?” Elio asks against Oliver's mouth.

“If you want it to be... then yes, it is.” There will never be rings for them, nor blessings, nor breaking the glass – but they can give themselves to each other. And seal it like this – with the ancient symbol of their shared faith.

“I am my beloved and my beloved is my.” Elio whispers and it's just truly perfect.

Oliver kisses him, then gets up to find his battered Torah so they can read the Song of Songs together.

That night, Elio wears nothing but the chain and star as Oliver fucks him, hard but also tender, somehow like it's their first time.

Oliver gets his test results on Friday. He's negative as well. To celebrate, he buys a bottle of champagne on his way home.

They drink it in bed, naked.

“I... I think I should apologize to you... for all the awful things I said.” Elio whispers, turning his glass in his hands while Oliver gently kisses down the back of his neck.

“You weren't... yourself. You were high, confused.” Oliver hums against his skin.

“That's a bit too easy.”

Oliver pulls back. “Is it?”

Elio wraps the comforter around himself, turning to face Oliver. “I was so angry with you... for leaving me... for marrying. I wanted to hurt you.”

“You succeeded.” Oliver deadpans.

Elio pales. “And yet you came for me. I'm sure I'd be dead by now if you hadn't shown up.”

“You always had a melodramatic streak.” Oliver gets up and refills their glasses.

“Stop mocking me. I'm serious.” Elio nudges Oliver's calve with his slender foot.

But Oliver doesn't want to talk about the past; instead, he wants to suck every toe of Elio into his mouth until he moans and writhes in the sheets, begging to be fucked.

“Okay, listen. I'm sorry too. We both did and said things we shouldn't have. I'm aware now of how much what I did messed you up, despite my best intentions. But I got offered a lifetime ahead to make up for it and I intend to do so by exquisitely making love to you for the foreseeable future so how about we concentrate on that instead of dwelling on past shit we can't change?” It's still too raw. Oliver knows they'll have to address all the things that happened during their years apart but right now the wound is just healing and he doesn't want to pick at the scab.

He fears it might be too much for Elio. It could lead to him relapsing.

And it's definitely too much for him.

Elio keeps looking at him intently, though, for a moment longer until a sly smile spreads on his face.

“How about you eat me out for a start then?”

Oliver is on him, turning Elio onto his stomach, before he's even finished the sentence.

The next weeks are the best of Oliver's life. Elio has regular check-ups at an AIDS clinic and even attends a few group meetings for recovering addicts. He finds a piano shop a few blocks down that doesn't mind him coming over to play there. He also gets a library card and spends hours at the New York Public Library, reading. When he's not there he hangs out at record shops, listening to all sorts of music, his tastes being quite eclectic, towing home his loot ranging from French Hip Hop to German Electro and Capeverdean Fado. Their record collection grows and Oliver is greeted with a new favorite tune playing every night he gets home.

Elio is making weekly mixtapes for him to which he listens on his way to work or while jogging. Oliver develops a deep love for The Go-Betweens. Other choices by Elio pass him by completely like The Jesus and Mary Chain or Einstürzende Neubauten. He actually ejects the tape and looks if it jammed the first time he encounters one of their songs.

But Elio loves them so they have to find a middle ground. Elio agrees to only play them when Oliver isn't home, or in the shower.

Elio also cooks and cleans, does the shopping and the washing until Oliver puts a stop to it and they draw up a plan to share the chores. “You're not my slave.” He says. In answer, Elio bats his eyelids, a dreamy look on his face. “You could buy me a collar, keep me on a leash, naked...”

This conversation ends with Elio bend over the armrest of the couch, grunting into the cushions as Oliver fucks him hard, slapping his ass to set the peach jiggling.

Elio even goes out a few times with guys and girls from the support group, usually when Oliver has to attend evening functions. Oliver would love to take Elio with him to those but they both agree that coming out in the current climate would probably kill Oliver's career - their only source of income right now.

Oliver still feels like he's cheating by hiding Elio.

And there's always that undercurrent of fear Oliver experiences when he's not with him. What's he up to? Where is he? With whom?

Hanging out with ex-junkies doesn't seem healthy to Oliver but Elio says it helps him to talk to others who've been through the same so Oliver forces himself to accept Elio's new friends and to trust him.

Sometimes it works.

Yet he wonders how difficult it really is for Elio to stay away from the drugs. He's afraid to ask, wanting to let sleeping dogs lie. But there are days when Elio smokes a lot. One or two times he's already drunk when Oliver comes home but tries to hide it.

One Wednesday evening Oliver finds Elio on his hands and knees in the bathroom, manically scrubbing the tiles with bleach. His lips are bitten bloody; his fingers chapped and red. As are his knees.

“Please, stop this.”

Elio just shakes his head.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Don't know. But it's dirty. I have to clean it.”

When Oliver tries to wrestle the scrubber from his hands Elio shoves him away. The bucket next to him falls over, spilling water all over the tiles.

“Fuck! Look what you've done! Now I have to start again!” Elio brushes a curl from his forehead with the back of his hand and starts scrubbing again, even more forceful than before.

Oliver decides to go for a drink. When he returns an hour later, Elio has already crawled into bed, curled up into a fetal position.

One Saturday he doesn't leave the bed all day. When Oliver tries to feed him his favorite chocolates he just turns to the wall. When Oliver begins to tickle him he starts to cry.

He spends the evening on the phone to one of his pals from the rehab group, sitting on the kitchen floor, while Oliver tries to grade some essays.

When Elio begs him to fuck him later that night Oliver can't.

Those are the days Oliver tries to forget.

His divorce goes through at the beginning of May. Neither he nor Claire attend court, letting their lawyers handle everything. It's easy as Oliver doesn't want anything and Claire doesn't need his financial support.

He writes to his parents to tell them but doesn't hear back from them.

Seven weeks after arriving in New York Elio takes another HIV test.

It's also negative. The mark on his back has vanished as well. It feels like a miracle.

The day after he calls Doug once more. Oliver sits next to him on the sofa and listens.

He's had time to think over the past few weeks. He's also had time to get to know Elio. Really get to know him – in a day to day life, not just a summer romance in their very own Arcadia.

He knows that Elio can cook great pasta but can't iron shirts for shit. That he loves Dostoevsky and Joseph Conrad but also cheap Italian pulp fiction and comics. That he admires Alexis from _'Dynasty'_ but HATES _'Dallas'_ ('boring straight bullshit' he calls it). That he always throws his dirty washing next to the hamper and never wipes the sink after brushing his teeth. That he wears mismatched socks because he's too lazy to sort them after washing but gets into a fit when their shoes are not lined up exactly parallel by the door. That he smokes Lucky Strikes but never Camel. That his preferred ice cream is pistachio and his most loved pizza topping mushrooms and anchovies...  


Oliver is finding out more and more about Elio every day and it doesn't seize to fascinate him.

Last night, they talked again about Elio's proposal. It felt weird at first but Oliver soon discovered that his attitude to what Elio has been doing has changed. Because it's Elio who's been doing it.

Oliver has always thought the sex industry to be somewhat lewd and dirty, a filthy gutter catering to people's depraved wants that should better stay secret. He associated porn with slimy middle-aged men wearing long beige trenchcoats, playing with themselves on half-empty subway trains or molesting little girls on playgrounds.

Until he started to watch porn himself.

That's when he discovered its truly beneficial workings.

Porn might have saved him.

Because the films Elio had done helped him to find out who he is and what he needs. They helped him through a lonely time of longing and made him finally brave enough to reach for what he wants.

It's true, objectively, they are filthy, obscene and indecent, sometimes even degrading – but maybe that's exactly why people need them?

They show things that can't and won't happen in real life, fulfilling fantasies, thereby giving hope, brightening dark days, filling voids that otherwise might eat up a person slowly until all that is left is bitter misery.

That can't be an entirely bad thing.

True, some things he's watched Elio do have been... extreme. They are not going there with each other – not yet; not all the way.

There has been some consensual spanking. He had tied Elio's hands, pulled his hair; and of course he's finally bitten his peach tattoo, licking and kissing it afterwards until Elio's whines became excited gasps. Elio in return has used a blindfold on him and a vibrator, whispering things in his ear that made him hard and blush at the same time, calling him a dirty, horny slut in need of a good fuck, a cocksucker, a naughty boy, promising some imaginative punishment involving a strap and candle wax. Oliver had come so fast he'd almost blacked out. They both agreed that it had been spectacular, though Oliver isn't sure how much of it he really wants to try.

They are experimenting, finding out what works for them. Together.

They talk about it. Before, and after. About their fantasies. Oliver wants to see Elio in lingerie. Elio wants Oliver to use a riding crop on him. They are still in the early stages of negotiating kinks and preferences, carefully feeling things out. How far can they go before the other gets uncomfortable?

They've also talked about what Elio has done – both on film and off. Some things made Oliver sick. Some made him cry. Some made Elio cry, eventually, seeing Oliver's distress. Sometimes it seems that only Oliver's reaction to his experiences shows Elio how wrong things have been – not that it's him who did something wrong, but the men who abused him.

Oliver listens to Elio talk about getting punched when he hadn’t wanted to do certain… things. That it sometimes hurt so bad that he’d wanted to scream – or cry – but couldn’t because he needed the money and no one would pay a whining whore, so he’d just moaned through it, hoping it would be over soon. That just before Oliver came for him he’d been at his lowest point, letting men fuck him for just ten bucks. That the pain had been so bad that all he could think about during it was the next hit and how it would dull all feelings of shame, guilt and self-loathing. 

Elio tells Oliver that one john threw him out of his driving car when he'd asked for his money afterwards. And about a regular whom he had to call daddy and who had the picture of two little boys pinned to his rearview mirror, an image Elio had focused on when the man fucked him.

“Better me than them.”

But they also laugh. About weird fetishes, crazy fan letters, unusual requests (one guy had wanted to take pictures of Elio in wellies and a woolen hat and nothing else; another one had only wanted to smell Elio's socks while Elio beat his ass with a ruler).

Amidst all these horrors there has been light as well. Elio gets all choked up when he remembers the kindness of strangers, like the man taking him to a diner and just feeding him without even touching him; or the nuns who handed out clean needles, soap and toothpaste so Elio could properly wash himself after work because he'd been spending all his money on drugs and had nothing left for toiletries; or the elderly prostitute living in the flat below who brought Elio clean clothes (who belonged to her son who'd died in a car crash two years before, Elio eventually learned).

When it comes to the movies he's made he has only good things to say about Doug. That they'd talked about what was going to happen prior to each scene. That he'd asked Elio if he was okay with it. That Elio could say no and did so on some occasions. That he'd introduced the actors. That the atmosphere had been relaxed and friendly, even when the scenes shot had looked brutal and intense. That Doug had insisted on aftercare, offering lotion, painkillers, enemas – and yes, poppers, drinks and sometimes weed to ease everyone up.

But nothing stronger.

Elio says he's sure that this had nothing to do with him getting into hard drugs. Oliver wants to believe him. At least he believes that Doug didn't provide heroin on set.  


They also talk about why Elio dropped out of University. He says that he felt lonely, alienated, cut off from real life, living in some sort of privileged ivory tower. That the things he had to learn told him nothing about today's society, today's problems. It just seemed like pure intellectual wanking, indulging in some fancy escapism while the world around him imploded.

When his tutors had praised him it had felt empty, reminding him of his parents, only recognizing him when he did something exceptional. But never being interested when he failed, or had been sad or hurt. It had irritated his mother to no end when he'd wanted to just be left alone. She'd called him a weird loner when all he had sought had been some peace and solitude. She'd always wanted him to be popular and urged him to go out up to the point where all he'd wanted to do was lock himself up in his attic and scream.  


That’s why his spot had been so important to him. There he could just be.

So, when he'd finally escaped his parents’ reach he had done just that – and kept himself to himself.

But there's a difference between wanting to be alone and being lonely, he discovered.

Suddenly, there'd been no one. It had been a sharp contrast to both boarding school and Italy with all the neighbors, guests and relatives hanging about the villa all the time.  


He tells Oliver that he stopped eating, stopped sleeping. That he couldn't get up in the morning and sometimes cried all day. It sounds like a severe depression.  
When Oliver says so Elio confesses that he thought about killing himself; that he even stood on the roof of his dorm one night, staring down, contemplating to just step off the ledge.

He also tells Oliver that he'd felt exactly the same after that fateful phone call in which he'd learned that he had lost Oliver forever to his future wife.

“I cried for a week. Anything would set me off. It got worse when I was back at school. I tried to embrace the pain, to accept and feel it but it made me... I don't know. I missed you so much. It felt as if you threw me away, discarded me. Got rid of me. Because I was just a nuisance... My calls, my letters… And because you were perfect it must have been my fault. I wasn't worth it. I was corrupted, a foul apple, looking nice on the outside but was eaten up by worms from within. I felt them crawling beneath my skin at night. When I told the nurse I was having trouble sleeping she prescribed me something. It made me feel better, even more so when taken with some cheap Lambrusco. So maybe it started back then? And later, all the men who fucked me were you when I closed my eyes. I thought I wanted to punish everyone by doing porn – my parents, my peers, you – but I guess it was mostly me.”

Oliver feels like shit hearing this but forces himself to listen. That’s the least he can do.

“But then, on the other hand… porn was something real. I felt it. It wasn’t some aloof studying of human nature it was… very human. Messy. Dirty.” Elio looks thoughtful, gnawing on his lower lip. “And I was good at it. It was as much removed from the sphere I grew up in as possible – but it was me, truly me. I exposed myself. I felt confident. Yet it was a step… I thought…” he seems to be searching for the right way to describe it. “If I was doing porn there was no going back. I left my parents and their world and the expectations that came with it behind, cut myself off from normal society to descend into this underbelly… I felt so rebellious.” He grins but there’s an edge to it. It dawns on Oliver that Elio has lost something over the past years. His innocence? Self-respect? The ability to feel happiness?

Elio is not seventeen anymore – but Oliver isn’t twentyfour either. They both bear scars now.

They talk until sunrise. After Elio it’s finally Oliver’s turn to speak. He apologizes. He tries to explain. Or at least to tell Elio how he felt about it all. That he thought Elio was so young and would never want to spent the rest of his life with a boring American academic seven years older than himself, not out, afraid to tell even his close friends who he really was.

That he knew he was a coward and that he therefore thought Elio would be better off without him. That the world was just waiting for Elio but that Oliver would always be the slightly dorky, too tall, awkward scholar with a boring field of research and passions he only dared to acknowledge hidden in the dark or thousands of miles away from home.  


That he'd firmly believed that Elio deserved so much better than him.

They both cried as the day broke – about wasted time, wrong decisions, regrets and mistakes, misunderstandings and lies.

Until Elio says: “You know, it kinda helped me, though. Because, truth be told, every guy I fucked also took me away from you and reminded me... I don't know? Maybe that you were different. That what we had was… special.”

They fall asleep together, and when Oliver wakes up he makes coffee for Elio the way he likes it, with three spoons of sugar in one mug before using their last four eggs, a chunk of cheese and the one only slightly mushy pepper to cook an omelet, serving it all in bed.

Where they talk about Hammer Films, after breakfast.

“I want to find some kind of closure with it. Doug has been good to me and I don't want to part on bad terms. Basically I ran away to San Francisco without even telling him good-bye after he found out about the drugs. He offered again and again to get me into rehab. I am still under contract for one movie. He could have sued me-”

“Well, what for? You didn't have a pot to piss in.” Oliver remarks.

“True, but... every time we talked he offered me to come back. To get clean. That I could work for him again. I mean... I just want to fulfill my obligations, then I can move on in my own right.”

“With porn?”

“Maybe. Or with erotica. Photoshoots. I'm good at it. I have a name. I could become a brand. Or… an actor? A real actor.” He grins but Oliver has the feeling he’s only half joking. But then Elio punches his biceps, looking almost shy. “I've been thinking. I want to promote safer sex.”

“Seriously?”

“Think about it. No one in porn films uses condoms. That gives the viewers the idea that only barebacking is hot.”

“Wasn't that your stance a few weeks back as well?”

“And you changed my mind. That's why I want to do this with you.”

“Elio...”

“Please.”

It's not that the idea doesn't appeal to Oliver's deepest, darkest wishes. He can't attend an office party with Elio as his plus one but at least they could fuck together for other men to see; to envy him like he envied the men who touched Elio in his films – envied but also somewhat admired them. He'd wanted to _be_ them. He wants others wanting to be him.

And he wants to be the only one allowed to touch Elio.

He understands that Elio feels somewhat committed to Hammer Films. That he wants to make a clean cut, without charges, accusations and reproaches.

And if Oliver is honest, it's in this world he only got a glimpse of that he felt the most accepted the way he is. No one judged him or told him he and his feelings and desires weren't valid.

So maybe he should embrace what he's offered? Like he embraces Elio every night...

“I have a few conditions...”

Elio kisses him and climbs into his lap and then there follows what Elio would later call a 'rehearsal'.

Now Oliver is listening as Elio presents their ideas to Doug. He can see on his face that he's met with reluctance.

“Doug, believe me. You've seen Oliver and his… assets.” Oliver rolls himself into an embarrassed ball of shame on the bed but Elio pets his hair. “It'll be my comeback and my last time – a one and only. And it's the new thing, people need to see something relateable in your films. You can become a pioneer.”

Eventually, Doug agrees.

They fly over to Salinas the next week at the end of the Spring term.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the music in this chapter:
> 
> The Go-Betweens - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tk41uHeaXjA&index=4&list=PL8soriwHf-4_cyIy5SxPCHo5x06g5udwL
> 
> The Jesus and Mary Chain - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iFp7W3PoNPI
> 
> Einstürzende Neubauten - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CweBj4pvcfg


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver make a porno.

It feels strange being back.

They don's stay at the cheap motel Oliver chose the last time. Doug has booked them a suit at the Holiday Inn. They grin as they take in the fruit basket awaiting them, the little chocolates placed on their pillows in their separate bedrooms. There's even a bottle of chilled champagne waiting.

“It's like we're filmstars.” Oliver isn't sure what to make of it.

Elio bites into a soft, pink peach and flops down on the sofa, throwing one leg over the chintz-covered armrest. “I told you, it's not that bad. We'll be famous.”

“I sincerely hope not.” One of his conditions had been that his face would be shown as little as possible.

They decide to use only one bedroom, the one overlooking a green courtyard with marble fountain in it, softly gurgling.

After freshening up they visit Hammer Films. Pam beams as she comes around from behind her desk to hug them both, even pinching Elio's cheek tenderly.

“You little fucker.” She takes a step back, hands on her hips. “I'm so glad to see you again. You look good. Doesn't he look good?”

“I might be biased but yes, he looks gorgeous.” When Oliver takes Elio's hand and entwines their fingers Pam almost coos, hiding her face behind a clipboard.

“So, have you decided on a pseud, Oliver?” She puts on her glasses and becomes all business.

They've joked about it on the flight, giggling like schoolboys. Their fellow passengers did shoot them irritated looks.

In the end, they settled for Oliver Hudson. It's not too tacky – and alludes to New York.

“I like it. Sounds classy. Masculine.” Pam writes it down. “I'll type out your contract while you go over everything with Doug.”

Once again, Oliver finds himself in the studio at the back of the house – but this time, Elio is with him. Yet that only marginally calms him down when he thinks about what they'll do here tomorrow.

They discuss their shoot, try out angles, positions, examine props. It's both surreal but also somewhat reassuring. Everything looks clean and Doug and the crew – light and sound technician – seem professional.

It also helps that at least Elio knows what he's doing.

“But please, try to hide my face.” Oliver reminds Doug, who nods.

“We'll do our best. Maybe you could wear a cap or something? Besides, with that cock, no one will look at your face, Oliver.”

If that's meant to settle his nerves it does the opposite. Because what if he fails to deliver? If he can't meet Doug's expectations?

They have dinner at their hotel that night to avoid running into Donna. Oliver asks if Elio misses her.

“Not really. She's a great person but... it wasn't going to last.” He shrugs. “I miss Malia, though. She's such a cool kid.”

Oliver feels a pang of sorrow. He'll never be able to give Elio children.

“It doesn't mater.” He says, once again reading Oliver's thoughts.

“Sure? Even your dad go excited at the prospect of a _bambini_ at the villa.”

Elio laughs. “I'm too young to have kids. I'm not even allowed to drink alcohol in this country.” He toasts Oliver with his sparkling water.

“I don't mean now. But just... in the long run.”

Elio's smile softens as he touches his Star of David, just visible in the open neck of his shirt. “Who knows what happens in the future?”

“Gay couples having kids? Adoption? A surrogate? No way that's ever gonna happen.” Oliver puts his knife and fork down. “We're today's lepers. No one would trust us with children.”

“Things can change.” Elio says, his hand touching Oliver's leg under the table. “If we fight for it.”

That night, Oliver does barely sleep. When Elio snuggles against him and starts to stroke his side, his belly, Oliver gently turns him down.

“Sorry, I can't.”

Elio softly bites his neck. “C'mon. It'll help you to relax.”

Oliver closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “I really don't think I... can. I'm just... sorry.”

Elio stills at that before wrapping his arm around him. “It's okay. Don't worry. It'll be fine.”

He lies next to Elio, listening to his peaceful snoring for hours until the sun rises, envying his peace a little but also glad that at least one of them will be well-rested.

During those long dark hours Oliver wonders for the thousandth time if he made the right decision. What would Claire say, his colleagues, his parents?

But when he feels Elio's skin against his all these thoughts fade. Warm, breathing, alive Elio. He got this second chance – he's not going to blow it to please people who don't know him and not really care about him.

Oliver showers long and hot, washing himself meticulously. Everywhere.

At breakfast he just downs one cup of coffee after the other.

“Hey, calm down. It's just us. We'll have sex. No big deal.” Elio finishes his third pancake and licks maple syrup from his fingers.

Oliver feels his face heat. “But with people watching? What if I... can't? Like last night.” He doesn't dare to raise his voice above a whisper.

“Oh Jesus, really? Then I'll help you.” Elio lowers his voice as well and leans in. “I know what gets you going, remember?”

Oliver has trouble swallowing.

“Or we can use a cock ring. But I doubt we'll need one.” Oliver can't believe they are discussing sex toys in the breakfast room of a busy Holiday Inn. He looks around but no one seems to care about them. “Seriously, if you feel uncomfortable, just say so and we'll stop. I promise. Okay? Now eat something or you'll collapse due to hypoglycemia.” Elio pushes his last pancake on Oliver's plate.

“Yeah.” Oliver nods, eyeing the food suspiciously. But he feels a little better.

When they arrive at Hammer Films, the scene is set with a daybed covered in creamy sheets and a low wicker table nearby. Doug has put some Venetian blinds around it. Elio inspects everything and nods before uncapping a sealed bottle of lube. There's water, orange slices and clean towels on a folding table off set. Light and sound are just setting up.

“Great, you're on time.” Doug greets them. Oliver hands him the signed contract he read yesterday afternoon. It's just for this one film, offering him $ 300 as a fee plus 10% profitsharing.

$ 300 for probably half a day's work. He starts to understand why Elio thought this was a good job. Oliver makes this in a week, sometimes working more than sixty hours. And he still has to pay back his student loan.

“Do you need to use the toilet now? We don't want any accidents. It's not that kind of movie.” Doug points toward the bathroom.

Oliver blushes. He hadn't thought the mechanics through, apparently.

“Yeah, I'll bottom so I better get myself am emema. And you should go take a piss, Oliver, after all the coffee you had.” Elio talks so casual about these most intimate things it somehow takes the awkwardness of the situation away.

“Oh, we could use that in the film, maybe in the end-” Doug seems eager.

“Ah, no.” Oliver raises his hands as he starts to walk towards the bathroom, outright fleeing. He can hear Elio and Doug snicker behind him as he closes the door.

Yet the image remains stuck in his head as he empties his bladder into the porcelain bowl.

Elio hadn't seemed shocked at all... Maybe some other time...?

About twenty minutes later they are both on set, just wearing bathing trunks (and Oliver covering his blond hair with a blue cap, shading his face). Doug and the lighting guy adjust spots and hold some sort of meter against various bodyparts of Elio and Oliver. Elio ignores them completely, trying to make small talk but Oliver feels a little irritated.  


When Doug talks them through the action Oliver wants to bolt.

The setup is supposed to be a pool house, hence the bathing shorts. Elio sprays them both with a mixture of oil and water that smells nice and makes their skin glisten and slippery...

“Okay, and when you've ended up like that you just go with it. Improvise. Do what feels good to you both. Ignore the camera. Don't look at it. As long as you stay in the middle of the bed we'll be fine.”

Doug places a small bowl filled with condoms on the low wicker table, steps behind his tripod and says: “Ready when you are.”

Oliver seeks Elio's gaze. Are they really doing this?

Apparently, they are.

Elio grins. “And action.” He mouths as he steps close to Oliver, a towel slung over his left shoulder.

At first it feels just awkward. They are kissing, which isn't that shocking to do in front of other people. Only, if Oliver would normally tone it down a little in public, here and now the opposite is expected. Elio uses too much tongue for his liking but then it's supposed to look hot and needy and well – it could be worse.

He also makes noises that don't really sound like Elio but way more like Oliver remembers Tim from the videos. It's not bad, it's just not how it usually goes with them in bed.  


When Elio says something along the line of _'Are you a guest? I'm the pool boy. How can I be of service?'_ followed by _'You're huge, man.'_ Oliver has trouble not to lose it.

This is ridiculous.

But apparently, his cock thinks otherwise. Thank god! It strains against Elio's palm as he cups him through the red bathing trunks Oliver is wearing, and that's when they both moan and Elio sounds suddenly just like Elio.

They clamber onto the bed, Oliver letting Elio lead, just responding to his touches, kisses and his probing, licking tongue.

When he pulls Oliver's shorts down and his fat cock springs free, flopping back against his lower stomach with a wet thud, hearing him gasp in anticipation sends a toe-curling shiver all the way through Oliver's body.

Elio sheds his white bathing trunks as well, exposing his lovely pink cock all flushed and swollen. Oliver's mouth waters as he dimly remembers that they are supposed to perform some sort of sixty-nine. For the camera to see them both properly they've decided that Elio will kneel above Oliver.

Oliver gets a prime view of Elio's hairless cleft, taint and balls – did he shave as well as douching? - before he swallows his hard cock down as far as possible, closing his eyes to lock the world out. Somehow, his cap is dislodged in the movement but Oliver couldn't care less as he tastes Elio on his tongue.

He's still working on his technique in this field. He knows he's getting better with his mouth, at least judging by how fast he can make Elio come when he works him like this, yet he's so far unable to overcome his gag reflex. But this position allows Elio to thrust deep inside his mouth and when Elio's cockhead hits his soft palate Oliver just relaxes,closes his eyes and swallows.

It results in Elio making a strangled noise around his own cock and then pulling off and out, squeezing his dick hard around its base, panting.

“Jesus, Oliver-” he splutters, his chin wet with spit. He's flushed rosy down to his belly.

“Sorry, what...? Are you okay?” Oliver is sitting up, reaching for Elio. Did he hurt him? Did he do something clumsy? Is it not hot enough? He knew he wasn't made for this, not like Elio. He lacks the dramatic exhibitionism apparently demanded here-

“Do you want to make me come just now? That wasn't what we talked about.” Elio wipes his chin with the back of his hand and flops down onto his back. “Sorry, Doug, just give me a minute.”

“Sure, Tim.”

What...? Oliver jumps. He'd almost completely forgotten Doug.

“So it was... good?” He asks shyly, leaning over Elio.

“It was fucking amazing.” Elio whines, one arm thrown over his eyes. “Just tone it down a notch, will you? No deep-throating, please, or this will be a short film.”

Oliver can't suppress a proud grin.

They pick up from the beginning of the sixty-nine again and this time Oliver tries just to suck like he usually does, and if he pays Elio's glans some extra attention with his tongue it is to stay in character.

Yet by now he knows Elio's body. He doesn't trust his moans and grunts as they sound at least partly fake and for the benefit of the viewers, but he knows that before he comes his cock starts to swell a certain way and his balls draw up tightly. So when he feels him getting close he lets him fall from his mouth and moves further back, licking his cleft until twirling his tongue around his hole a few times.

Elio sits up a little, releasing Oliver as well. His gasps sound more like Elio again and that's why Oliver keeps going. He dimly remembers the camera and pulls Elio's cheeks apart, cupping his tattooed buttock with his hand and squeezes it a few times for good measure before spearing his tongue and pushing in.

Elio feels velvety soft on his tongue, hot and pliant. And tight. He's told him that usually he would use a dildo before filming an anal sex scene to get lose and used to something or someone penetrating him but that he'd decided against it today.

Because this is them and that should sufficiently relax him.

Oliver just hopes he's right because he really doesn't want to hurt him. So he makes sure that his lovely smooth pink hole is properly wet until he can hear Elio – definitely not Tim – beg for his cock.

“Please... Sir... fuck me. I need it so badly.”

Oliver pushes him forward until he's on his hands and knees while sitting up himself, sliding out from underneath. He reaches for the condoms but Elio is faster.

Oliver watches mesmerized as Elio turns, rips a blister pack open with his teeth and takes the condom between his puffy lips before diving down between Oliver's legs. He's sitting back on his heels, his big cock jutting out in front of him so the camera gets a perfect view of Elio rolling the condom onto Oliver's erection just with the help of his mouth.

It's one of the hottest things Oliver has ever seen.

He barely remembers to grab the lube and slick himself up when Elio falls onto his back, spreading his legs and pulling his knees up to his chest.

“I want to look at you.” He whispers and Oliver has no idea if this is Tim or Elio talking but it doesn't matter as he lines up and sinks down, the lean, sweat-slick body below welcoming him, opening up for him, letting him in.

It's one slow, delicious slide until he bottoms out and Elio makes a little sound of wonder, holding his gaze, mesmerizing, grounding.

Later, Oliver can't remember fucking Elio. He can't remember the things Elio said either, probably the usual porn babble of _'harder, deeper, faster, this feels so good, take me, give it to me, bla bla bla'._

All he can remember is looking down at Elio, almost drowning in his eyes – huge and bright green with light-brown sprinkles, pupils blown wide, clear and shiny until overspilling with tears as he comes, shooting all over his stomach. He's reaching for Oliver as if he wants to bury his face in his chest, his shoulder and Oliver meets him – fuck the camera, this is too intimate for anyone else to see – and then he shudders and comes as he can more feel than hear Elio say _'I love you'_ against his skin.

They end up in a pile of sweat, lube, cum and tears on the small bed and only when the lights switch off and someone offers them towels does Oliver remember to pull out and tie the condom off before throwing it in a nearby bin with shaking hands, just glad that he hits the mark with an embarrassingly wet thud.

They kiss once again before slipping on their robes and Elio looks suddenly as shy as Oliver feels. Doug hands them both water bottles that they eagerly open, bursting into frantic giggles as they drink, snorting water all over themselves. Doug shakes Oliver's hand and tells him that he wasn't that bad for a rookie and Elio bumps his shoulder before sauntering off to take a shower.

When he's gone Doug nods and says: “This was really something else. That energy between you. The feelings. I know this will be special. No, this will be huge, Oliver, mark my words.”

Oliver can't help but smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really is a gay porn actor named Oliver Hudson (he's the guy in the video with Greco Rai if you know what I mean... If not, look it up, it's a Helix film). I took that name because a) New York and b) Rock Hudson...
> 
> Last chaper next week + an outlook on their life together. It feels strange that this fic will soon be over.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You want to know how their story ends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got long. I originally intended for this to be the final chapter and then an epilogue but as I'm already writing two other stories I didn't want to keep you waiting for this.  
> Enjoy!  
> All will be well.

_'Pool Boy Rubber'_ becomes Hammer Films bestselling movie ever. The cover showing Elio drifting on a red air mattress in Doug's pool, wearing nothing but wet see-through white shorts clearly showing his hard cock becomes iconic, copied by artists, filmmakers and even a band for their album cover.

John Waters pays tribute to it by including a pool scene with Elio in his next film. The short cameo is his first venture into real cinema. The movie wins the Palm d'Or in Cannes and suddenly Elio walks red carpets at serious film festivals and is featured in _The Face, Dazed & Confused, Arena_ and even _Interview_.

A picture Robert Mapplethorpe takes of Elio in black and white, posing like the Holy Sebastian, fetches over $ 20 000 at a charity auction for research into AIDS/HIV, but sadly after the photographer's death.

Their hour long film makes history as the first gay porn movie in which the performers use condoms. Thanks to the success of _‘Pool Boy Rubber’_ it's seen more and more often afterwards, with Elio's way of putting it onto Oliver getting referred to as 'doing a Tim'.

Oliver never watches their movie, regardless. He can't.

But he knows that Elio frequently puts it on when he's alone because Oliver sometimes finds it still inside the VCR when they want to watch something else together. At first it felt strange but after this has happened a few times Oliver just smiles and puts it back in its case, his fingers sometimes caressing Elio's lean frame on the cover.

But on that day in May in Salinas this is all still in their future. For now, having finished shooting means that Elio is done with Hammer Films and free to use his screen name if he chooses to.

Oliver knows he’ll never do anything like this ever again. It wasn't outright traumatizing but still not an experience he wants to repeat. He prefers making love to Elio with nobody watching.

So they say good-bye to Doug and Pam and fly home to New York the next day.

As Esther is due to return from France in two weeks they've decided to accept the invitation from Elio's parents to spend the summer in Italy. Elio's been a little reluctant but Oliver has talked him around. He regularly calls home by now to hear about his dad's recovery. At first, he'd told them that he was with Oliver in New York; but before they'd flown to California he's told them that he was _with_ Oliver. Period.

Annella and Samuel had met this declaration with loud shouts of _‘Mazel tov!’_ over the phone. Oliver hadn't been able to suppress a smile. Their approval felt especially important because he knows he has nothing like that to expect from his own parents, should they ever decide to speak to him again.

Back in New York they just have to pack up their things, putting Oliver’s few belongings into storage. While clearing out Elio discovers his photo album back from 1983 and spends a whole afternoon cross-legged on the floor, browsing it. Oliver doesn’t hurry him. He’s been down memory lane often as well over the past few years. He just watches Elio while continuing to sort things he wants to take with them to Italy and boxing the other stuff.

Elio pauses a long time, staring at a picture of Vimini.

On the last page, he finds the postcard Oliver nicked from him. “You took it! I wondered where it had gone.” Elio looks up at him and his eyes are huge and a little damp.

“I think you’re in dire need of ice cream.” Is all Oliver can say, already making for the kitchen.

They fly to Milan a week after Salinas. Anchise meets them in Linate and drives them to B. where Oliver encounters his successor, Bernard, a sturdy red-haired post-doc from Berkeley writing his PhD on late Roman Terra Sigillata.

Chiara already has her claws in him. The first three days she ignores Oliver completely but when they all go swimming with Elio and Marzia and a bunch of cousins they finally briefly talk on the beach. Oliver apologizes for double-crossing her three years ago and she's gracious enough to accept it.

Elio and Oliver can't be as open here in Italy as they can be in parts of New York but that's bearable. At least they can do as they please in the villa and its garden. People know but no one says anything – not even Mafalda, who just makes their joint beds and puts the piles of their clean clothes next to one another on the duvet.

The summer is just a long, languid dream filled with wine and great food and swimming and dancing and Elio outright thrives, looking better, healthier each day.

As does his dad with whom Oliver spends many hours discussing ancient Greek philosophy.

Elio has discussions with his parents too, often over dinner. Tempers flare when it comes to politics and a few times Elio storms off, banging the old doors of the villa so forcefully that Mafalda jumps serving dessert, shaking her head at the _‘ragazzo pazzo’_.

Other times the guests agree with Elio and dinner drudgery transforms into a lively debate. Oliver learns a lot about Italy during those evenings.

But to him the most important thing is that Elio and his parents talk – even if it sometimes ends in shouting matches. It is still much better than silence. They still don’t know about the drugs, though Oliver has caught Mafalda’s eyes a few times, frowning, her expression full of concern when looking at Elio, who’s still thin and pale. Oliver’s Italian is too limited and her English almost non-existent so he can’t ask her what’s the matter or tell her that Elio is clean. He just hopes she somehow understands that Elio is better than the last time he stayed at home.

Oliver can’t bring himself to disclose the truth to Elio’s parents after all they’ve been through. Besides, it’s up to Elio if he wants them to know – about the drugs and the pornography and everything else. He sometimes thinks that Elio is on the verge of saying something, especially when his parents ask what he’s going to do now, if he wants to go back to college - yet he always holds himself back in the last minute. In these moments Oliver looks down into his lap, twisting his napkin.

One evening Samuel eventually outright asks Oliver if he knows what Elio’s done over the past couple years. Oliver can tell that Elio’s dad tries to sound casual but his worry still shines through.

Oliver can’t lie, not to Samuel, not when it comes to his only son. But he won’t spill Elio’s secrets and betray his trust either. So he just nods but stays quiet, giving no details, no further explanations.

“Do I want to know?” Samuel sounds hesitant, defeated, as he twirls his tumbler in his hand, the amber whiskey sloshing in the glass.

“I don’t think so.” Oliver stares into his own drink.

Samuel hums, shifts on the sofa, crosses his legs, lights another cigarette.

“But he’s okay now, yes? With you. Everything is… okay?”

Oliver wants to say so many things, wants to reassure Elio’s father that all is well. At the same time, he just wants to talk with someone, anyone, about his own fears, wants to share the burden, wants to tell somebody what they’ve been through, maybe wants to hear a thank you or some other acknowledgment of his actions while simultaneously knowing that this need is pathetic.

So he settles for: “Yeah, it’s… good. He’s okay. We’re… okay.”

He suddenly feels on the verge of crying and has to pinch the bridge of his nose. It’s futile, because he loses his hard-won composure when Samuel pets his knee and nods: “Thank you, Oliver. For all you’ve done.”

It’s too much; it feels like Samuel has read his thoughts. He breaks down, sobbing and tries to get up to flee the room but Samuel grabs his wrist and pulls him back down until he ends up in the arms of Elio’s father who holds him and gently rocks him until the crying fit subsides.

“Sorry.” Oliver chokes, wiping snot from his face. Samuel just refills their glasses.

“It’s okay.” His voice sounds shaky as well. “I hope one day Elio will tell me about it. When I was ill I… you know, he’s the most precious thing in our lives. That’s why we’re so happy that you're taking care of him. He would hate me even more if he knew I said that but he can be quite a handful.” Samuel shakes his head, a fond smile blooming on his face.

“He doesn’t hate you.” Oliver counters.

“I know, Oliver. I know.”

As the Summer ends and their return to the States draws closer and closer, Elio gets quieter and quieter. He disappears for hours, spending his afternoons alone in the attic, on bike rides or god knows where while Oliver finishes editing his manuscript.

“What is it?” Oliver asks one evening in bed.

“Nothing.” Elio replies and rolls over. Oliver is pretty sure he’s just feigning sleep.

He can’t stop worrying when Elio wants to be alone and absconds. Oliver's not sure how easy it is to score drugs in B. but Milan isn't that far away – nor is Nice. A lot of Elio's cousins smoke pot. Oliver fears that one day the temptation will be too much for Elio to withstand, especially when opportunity is met with the anxiety and forlorn sadness Oliver still senses in him.

By August Oliver has made a decision.

“I'm not going back to Columbia. I have a former colleague who's now working in Rome and who got funding for an interdisciplinary research project on Imperial Roman sculptures for the next twelve months. What do you reckon? A year in Rome?”

Elio visibly lights up at the prospect. As much as he professes to hate Italy, Oliver is quite aware that he's more at ease in Europe than in the US. Of course, over here there's also unfairness, a political divide, social disintegration, racism, antisemitism – but not on the same scale as in the US. Elio is at home in a liberal, cosmopolitan European culture – something hardly found in the States outside of New York. Elio sometimes jokes that all the new world has to offer is 'just civilization'; of course, he’s paraphrasing Norbert Elias when he wants to be funny. Oliver rolls his eyes at him but privately thinks it’s kinda cute.

They spend the next year in a mansard reminding Oliver of 'Roman Holiday'. They drink coffee in the morning on their small balcony overlooking Trastevere or have a glass of wine there in the evenings, watching the sun set over the ancient city before falling into their huge unmade bed. Every odd weekend they go up to B. where Samuel has recovered to his old strength.

Elio eventually decides to study politics at the American University of Rome. To help ends meet he takes a job in the bookshop where he and Oliver went to that legendary poetry reading that first introduced them to the San Clemente Syndrome.

Rome offers so much more than B. - in good and bad ways. There's opera, literature, theater, art, fashion, a gay scene – but also drugs, drinks, wild parties. Oliver sees danger lurking everywhere, especially when Elio starts going out with his new friends from Uni who are all several years younger than Oliver. He sometimes accompanies them – but usually ends up feeling old and washed-out. Even Elio's enthusiasm in bed afterwards can't get him out of his somber mood.

Frustration builds between them, more and more often leading to fights during which Elio accuses Oliver of smothering him. Oliver knows he’s overprotective, that his fears are probably unwarranted, that his worries display a mistrust Elio rightfully rejects – but these rational thoughts immediately leave him when he remembers Elio going cold turkey in New York, convulsing on the bathroom floor. He’ll never live through this again and if that means to become a control freak so be it. Elio will thank him in the end.

Because he’ll still be alive to do so.

If only Elio could see things his way...

In December the tension gets so bad that Oliver goes up to B. alone for New Years, giving Elio – and himself – space to regroup. Thankfully, Samuel and Annella don’t pry, accepting Oliver’s explanation that Elio has a lot to do for his studies and exams. He spends the few days at the villa trying to overcome his concerns and sometimes succeeds over a delicious meal and a bottle of wine with Elio’s parents and their guests.

Only for his apprehensiveness to return much stronger than before the moment he’s alone in his room; the room he shared with Elio over the summer.

When he gets back to Rome in the beginning of January the flat is a mess, empty cans, bottles and overflowing ashtrays everywhere. They are not only filled with cigarette butts.  


Apparently, Elio hosted an impromptu New Year’s Eve party that's still going three days later. Oliver has to forcibly remove two guys from their bathroom snorting coke off the toilet lid as well as a couple fucking in their bed while Elio sits next to them, staring at the TV, watching young women wearing sequin bikinis in the shape of fruits dancing on a stage; face blank, eyes glazed over, pinpoint pupils.

Oliver does not even have to ask.

When Elio suddenly starts to giggle as Miss Albicocka drops her bra Oliver asks him if they still mean something? The vacant stare he gets in answer hurts maybe more than if he’d found Elio with someone else’s cock up his ass and a needle in his arm.

He seriously contemplates returning to New York in that moment. But he knows if he leaves Elio like this it'll be San Francisco all over again. So he sits down next to him and switches off the TV. Elio doesn’t protest, just slumps forward, holding himself around his middle as he rests his head against Oliver’s shoulder.

“Happy new year.” He mumbles, his chapped lips trying to smile.

Oliver kisses his temple. “Happy new year to you too.”

“I just smoked some weed and did a few lines. I promise.” Elio shoves up the sleeves of his too big jumper – it belongs to Oliver – exposing his pale forearms. There are no needle marks.

Oliver knows that junkies lie. And that Elio is clever, very clever. Not above manipulation. But what can he do? He has to trust him – even if it’s so hard sometimes.

“Will you leave me?” Elio asks, his voice small and almost childlike.

Oliver swallows. “No. But… I give you an ultimatum. If you ever do drugs again, we’re off. I’ll pack my things and go. This is our last chance. Please don’t ruin it. Because I really do love you.”

They both end up crying in the middle of their chaotic apartment, confessing their doubts and fears between sloppy kisses.

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore. I thought you regretted… us. Leaving New York. Your job. Your family.”

“You goose.” Oliver pulls Elio in his lap and holds him, carding his fingers through his greasy curls.

Elio stays clean for the rest of their time in Rome.

At the end of Oliver's tenure Elio transfers to NYU – not Columbia.

When they return to New York in the summer of 1987 the city has changed. Many gay clubs, saunas and bars have closed. In magazines previously devoted to lonely hearts columns for males seeking males there are now pages upon pages of obituaries, usually for young men in their twenties and thirties. Everyone seems to know someone who died or is ill.

But the community hasn't been silenced. On the contrary, there are marches, direct actions, campaigns for better hospital treatment, subsidized medical care, telephone helplines, the setup of counseling and advice centers.

Elio becomes involved with ActUp through university. He goes to his first meeting after Doug called him to inform him that two of his previous film partners are dead.

Soon, Elio attends more funerals than student parties.

It's only a matter of time before someone finds out who he is. Apparently, one of his ActUp comrades owns a copy of 'Pool Boy Rubber' and tells him that it's a huge hit in the community. Hammer Films has paid Oliver quite a nice sum in royalties (Doug says it's only fair, though Elio signed a contract not entitling him to any payment for the film in exchange of his stage name) but they still don't have an idea just how successful their movie has become.

Therefore, it's a surprise when Elio brings the vinyl of a British band home to show Oliver that a recreation of his pool boy shot is on the backsleeve for a song titled _'It's a Sin'_.

“You're a phenomenon.” Oliver jokes and kisses him, smirking.

He stops laughing when a few weeks later a reporter from _‘New York Native’_ calls and wants to interview Tim Albicocka and Oliver Hudson.

When they decline he threatens to expose them anyway. Oliver gets furious. Elio calls Doug who puts them in contact with his lawyers as well as _‘Next Magazine_ ’. They agree to do a piece with them if they protect their true identities.

Discretion, however, doesn’t last long.

After the article is published it only takes a month until Oliver is called to his dean. There's much coughing and awkward shuffling but it’s made quite clear that Oliver will have to leave after the autumn term.

“We can't let someone like you teach young adults. We have to think of our reputation and our sponsors. No one will send their kids here anymore or give us money if word spreads of what they might get exposed to. We sincerely hope there won't be any complaints from students about... inappropriate conduct by you, Dr Blatt?”

Elio has to stop Oliver from handing in his resignation. “Don't give them the satisfaction. If they want to get rid of you, make them pay. And I mean it. Like good hard money.”

In the end, Oliver hires a lawyer via ActUp and she negotiates a nice, satisfying financial settlement. It's enough for Oliver to take at least a year off to write another book.

Yet the wound his forced departure leaves is deep. He and Elio go through quite a rough patch afterwards.

His pain is somewhat mended, however, when the New York Times runs an article on them the following spring, _'The Men Who Made Safe Sex Not Just Safe But Sexy'_.

It features their full real names and a photograph. Elio's parents call and tell them they are proud of him. They'd wished he'd told them himself but they support him no matter what and urge him to continue being an advocate and to fight for acceptance of both gay sex and HIV.

Oliver's parents stay silent, apart from informing him in a letter that they disowned him. Claire writes to tell him she's now going by her maiden name again.

For his thesis Elio chooses to analyze the societal impact of the AIDS epidemic in connection with the rise of conservative politics. After graduating, he stays with ActUp, becoming one of their most vocal spokesmen, the tag line ‘porn star turned activist’ drawing a wide audience. He goes on lectures all over the country, speaks on the radio and TV talk shows about his past (he even gets on Oprah!), about being gay, about AIDS, about the importance of safe sex. He's charming and eloquent and intelligent and beautiful and Oliver couldn't be prouder of him.

Until he finds those anonymous letters, a whole drawer full of them, as he's looking for some insurance papers. They vividly detail how the writers want to torture Elio to death before burning his remains, accompanied by grueling Bible phrases. But when he confronts Elio with them he tries to play it down.

“Don't take it too serious. Those are just some crazy folks.” He shrugs.

“What? They want to cut off your-“

“Don’t tell me. I should've thrown them away, sorry. Better burn them.”

Oliver doesn’t. He takes the letters to the police instead. It’s a truly humiliating afternoon he spends at the precinct, getting laughed at by a Detective before being dismissed like a naughty schoolboy, being told that he and Elio will get what they deserve.

Back home he burns the letters one by one.

Over the next months he discovers that people send Elio all sorts of things: bibles, rosaries. A dead rat. Feces.

It’s ranging from annoying to outright disgusting but Elio still doesn’t perceive these mailings as threatening or dangerous. Until he gets beaten up in Austin, Texas, after a charity event to collect money for an AIDS hospice.

He gets away with a few broken ribs, a fractured ankle and stitches to his eyebrow. Oliver flies over immediately, only to be denied access to Elio at the hospital because he’s not related or married to him. Apparently, as a boyfriend he has no rights when it comes to health issues. Or financial issues. Or insurance issues. It’s not only unfair – it’s degrading.

Now Oliver’s fear of Elio getting back on drugs is replaced by fear for Elio’s life and physical integrity. He eventually makes him chose between continuing his talks or going back to Europe for a few months when a man pulls a gun on him right in front of their apartment building. Oliver has to stand by and watch as the guy, dressed in a proper gray suit and tie, puts a revolver to Elio's head and starts to rant about god and eternal damnation that awaits all sodomites and everyone they corrupt.

Only when Elio calmly starts to explain that he's Jewish does the man lower the gun, frowning. Oliver knocks him out with a punch to his face and then gets arrested for assault. He has to spend a night in a holding cell until Elio is allowed to bail him out.

The officers demand a full body cavity search and it's the most mortifying procedure Oliver has ever endured. At least they wear plastic gloves, possibly due to Elio's activism, Oliver supposes as they tell him to bend over and spread his legs.

The attacker is put in a mental hospital. Oliver gets fined and has to do four weeks of community service. On his last day Elio picks him up and they drive directly to the airport, spending the next few weeks in the safe anonymity of B.

When Elio wakes up in his old room during the nights, groaning, bathed in sweat, Oliver holds him and tells him he's there and that all is fine.  


Because, truth be told, despite everything, it is.

 

**2007**

Elio has always loved spring in B. the most. The summers could get scorching, the winters damp and cold. Autumn usually happened on a Wednesday afternoon.

But spring is mild, breezy, sunny. The fruit trees start to bloom and nature comes alive again. It's a time of passage, of leaving the old behind and start anew. Year after year.  


He'd turned 41 a few weeks ago. They just had a small celebration, much unlike his 40th last year for which Oliver had invited all and sundry to the villa. B. had been flooded with European and American celebrities, much to the delight of the locals who'd made a fortune with wine, food and accommodation.

Oliver had contacted everyone with whom Elio had ever worked during his illustrious career. Yes, even Doug and Pam came. Elio's past is no secret, on the contrary. Apparently, in the new millennium, a somewhat sordid personal history is something to be admired for.

And Elio loves to be admired.

At the moment, he gets adoration by the bucket. His latest movie did win an Academy Award for best foreign language film as well as getting him a Bafta and a César. The ceremony in Los Angeles had been the first time he'd set foot in the US in eighteen years.

Many things have changed over there but not enough for him to consider living or working there. He's a little sorry for Oliver – but Elio is old Europe, born and bred, and truly withers anywhere else.

Yet Elio’s aware that he's depriving Oliver of his homeland. He says it doesn't matter but Elio knows he's lying for his sake. Like he often does. Oliver misses the US, he misses New York, he misses New England. Maybe he even misses his family, though that’s a thorny issue.

His father died a few years back without them ever reconciling. Oliver went back home for the funeral nonetheless. Since then, there's sporadic contact with his mum and even Claire, who's married to a surgeon and has two daughters. She's happy, Oliver says, and Elio suspects this happiness allowed her to eventually forgive Oliver.

Now she sends a Christmas card every year, fully aware that they don't celebrate it. But it makes Oliver smile so Elio puts up with it.

Because Oliver is the most important person in his life and Elio would do anything to make him smile. His laugh is even better.

‘Family’ is also complicated for another reason. They don’t have children – though Elio knows Oliver wants to be a father. But neither in Italy nor in France are they allowed to adopt. It might be possible in New York but that would mean returning there – which is out of the question.

It’s not that Elio minds that much – he still doesn’t feel ready. But kids are important to Oliver. He loves them and would be an amazing dad, Elio is sure. 

The issue had come up for real about ten years ago, when Elio had attended a gallery opening in London – only to discover that the artist featured was no other than Grace. She’d done it – went to San Francisco art school, then moved to London with Malia. Now she was working under the name Carrie Mae Weems – quite successfully.

Of course, Elio had asked about Malia. She’d been a young teenager back then. They all met and became friendly again while Elio was shooting a movie in London. Over the next few years, Malia and Grace spent a few weeks each year at the villa on holiday.

Malia didn’t remember Elio from her baby years but they got close quickly nonetheless. Elio enjoyed spending time with her. Yet when he saw the look on Oliver’s face when he thought he was unobserved – full of longing – it nearly broke his heart. Oliver was always in a strange mood for a few days after Grace and Malia left.

It hurt Elio, because he felt undeservingly privileged. He, who’d never wanted children, had suddenly come by some kind of step-daughter, while Oliver, who’d actually been married to a woman, was childless – because he’d chosen Elio.

And not just any step-daughter. Malia turned out to be extraordinary, winning a place at Cambridge. It was mostly due to Elio that she decided to become an actress herself and went to RADA afterwards. Now she works with the NT. She never exploited their connection, though, even refused Elio’s offers to put a word in for her with directors or casting agents. She wanted to make it on her own. And she did.

Elio is viciously proud of her.

And that’s all he needs. He doesn’t need a child related to him by blood or genes. He doesn’t need sleepless nights and teething problems and nappy changing…

But he knows that Oliver would love it. And it’s fucking hard to be unable to give him what he wants.

Soon, it might be too late, no matter that Elio is aware that some countries are debating expanding the rights of LGBT people. Most likely it’s the generation to come that will benefit from those changes to the law.

Oliver's turning 48 this year. But he's still trim, with full blond hair and a toned body much younger men envy him for when they go down to the beach. He's even managed to learn Italian. Yet his French is still atrocious, despite them living part of the year in Paris.

But Elio always makes a point of spending the spring in B. Which is why he now walks down the grant staircase to the ground floor. They've moved into his parents' bedroom after they'd decided to relocate to Rome a few years ago.

“You two need the peace and quiet here, the seclusion. But your mother and me, we need life and excitement now. Who knows how much time we've left?” Papa had said, smiling, before giving Maman a loud wet smack on the cheek.

Elio hopes they still have a lot of time. But he's aware how fast disaster cans trike. He's seen it too often.

His parents and him are close again, maybe closer than ever. It might be middle age that has made him softer, more forgiving. Maybe life has taught him not to see things all black and white. He doesn't regret his radical younger years, though he had to come to terms with a few disillusions. But he's learned to make compromises and accept different opinions.

He's grown up, he guesses.

He actually feels content now with his life. He tries to make a difference by way of his art, the films he picks, the roles he plays. He and Oliver live by certain standards and both donate vast amounts of their income to charities. They don't tire of lending their voices to good causes.

But Elio doesn't rub himself raw anymore over the unfair state of the world. He's improving when it comes to compartmentalization. It's still not easy sometimes. He still takes to the streets, aware that his name or presence can draw attention to an issue. But he's not exposing himself as much as he used to do anymore. He values their privacy.

That's why he's never worked as Elio Perlman but always as Tim Albicocka.

Downstairs, he finds Oliver in the kitchen, his favorite room in the house apart from his father's study and their bedroom. He'd always liked to cook and with Mafalda retiring after Anchise's death to spend her last years in Naples with Manfredi Oliver has taken over the cooking. His Tortelli Cremaschi are almost as good as Mafalda's.

Today, he's prepared an omelet for a late breakfast, accompanied by a quiche with spring onions, and those small fluffy pancakes Elio can't get enough of. He's been a vegetarian for years now – providing Oliver with an endless opportunity for friendly mockery – but still can't quite get around to going vegan. Oliver had put his foot down when he'd started to just eat nuts and fruit.

“You're already thin as a willow. I won't watch you starve yourself, just eating salads. And no, this is not up for discussion.”

In secret Elio is pleased. He wants to live a conscious life but he also wants to indulge sometimes. And he loves nothing more than Oliver indulging him.

Oliver still watches over him. Even after all these years. Elio is aware that he destroyed some basic trust between them early on and that it will literally take a lifetime to restore it. He's prepared to try his best – one day after another.

He's been clean since that fateful New Year's in Rome twenty years ago. Well, mostly clean. He and Oliver dropped some E on a trip to Manchester in the mid-90s but it wasn't worth the anguish he could see afterwards in Oliver's eyes.

So now it's just white wine - and Grappa if he feels adventurous. And they still smoke. Their only vice, Oliver likes to joke.

Elio kisses him in passing as he sits down at the huge white kitchen table, pours himself an espresso and shovels three pancakes onto his plate. Oliver wipes his hands in a tea towel before he starts to quarter the quiche.

He has a big smile on his face.

“What?” Elio asks after he's downed the first cup of many he'll have over the day.

“Sorry?”

“You're way too chipper this morning. What's up?”

“Morning? It's almost noon.”

“Stop deflecting. You're grinning like an idiot. What is it?” It's not that Elio doesn't have a suspicion.

“It arrived this morning.” Oliver blurts out, setting the quiche down onto the table. He looks at Elio from under his long blond lashes, blushing a little. It's still so adorable that Elio would like to have him right here over the kitchen counter – even after all these years.

“And why are you still standing here, playing housewife? Show me.” Elio can't suppress a smile himself.

Oliver is already half-way out the door and into the hall before he's finished his sentence.

He returns a moment later with a cardboard box roughly sixty by thirty centimeters. It looks rather heavy.

“The publishers send me twenty copies for personal use. They'll be delivered to bookstores all over the US tomorrow.” He reaches inside the box and takes out a small paperback. When Elio sees the cover he has to swallow.

“I didn't know you would use this one.” He says, reaching for the book.

“Me neither. It was decided by the publishers. I just supplied them with a few photos.”

The cover shows Oliver almost 25 years ago. The picture was taken shortly after his first arrival in B. He's lying in the shade of the garden on the grass ('Heaven' he'd called it), holding a few pages of his manuscript in his hands. Elio still remembers Oliver getting up a few minutes later to follow him inside to listen to him play piano. Elio knows this because it was him who took the picture with his fathers camera. He has no idea how it came into Oliver's possession. Maybe papa had given it to him? Who knows...

But now it's on the cover of Oliver's first novel. He's been writing for magazines for over ten years – mostly about art, cooking, travel and his witty, eloquent comments on current affairs – and has even published two volumes of short stories, but this is his first real book as he likes to call it.

Elio knows what it's about. It's about him. Them. Before sending it to his publishers, Oliver had given him the manuscript to read. He had been both shocked and delighted. Delighted at how accurate Oliver had described what had happened during their first Summer. And shocked because of the very same reason.

It's not all true. Oliver has taken some poetic license. Omitted, shortened, paraphrased. But it's undeniably Elio's emotional turmoil he's writing about – and through that, his own.

“Why did you write from my point of view?” Elio had asked as he'd finished reading.

“I guess it helped me to make sense of what happened to me. It was easier. To channel my guilt, work through my conflicting emotions. Becoming you, retelling everything from your perspective opened a new widow into the past, allowed me to take a different look at what went on.”

Elio had nodded, still a little dumbstruck.

“But why the sad ending? It's not what really happened.” He'd smiled, kissing Oliver's lips.

“But it very well could have. If I didn't reach out, if you hadn't let me in... If one of us had taken the other road. It could have ended even worse. Besides, it's not definitive that they – we – part I the end. Maybe I stay.”

“Maybe you do.” Elio had deepened the kiss, dropping the pages, fanning out all over the floor of their Parisian apartment.

“Do you mind?” Oliver had asked later at night, in bed.

“You, telling the world all about how we first met? Not really. I mean, the world already saw us fucking so I guess it's okay.”

Their film is still popular. The internet has given it a new boost. To Elio, it seems the web is made for porn (which he regularly consumes). Oliver usually grins when he says stuff like that because Elio is still almost unable to write a simple email on his own while Oliver has been running a blog since 1995.

Now, holding the book in his hands, Elio somehow can't quite believe it. He's unable to take his eyes off the cover, sensing that Oliver feels similar.

“Let's open a bottle of champagne.”

“It's not even noon, Elio.” Oliver sounds a little shocked by this small extravagance. He's still so conservative sometimes.

“How often is it that you publish your first novel, mh?” Elio turns, walking over to the fridge. “By the way, I like the title. _'Call Me By Your Name'_. It's rather poetic. You'll have to sign it for me.” He starts to uncork a bottle of Piper Heidsieck left over from his birthday.

“I already did.” Oliver says, getting two glasses. “Here.” He shows Elio the title page. There, black on white, he reads Oliver's dedication: _'Alma de mi vida'_.

“Soul of my life.” Elio mouths, feeling a lump in his throat, but then the bottle pops and they start to giggle, breathless with love and a happiness they didn't dare to dream off during that fateful summer back in 1983 when they first stayed at this house together. It's a miracle that they are both here, now. For Oliver is right, their story could have ended quite differently.

It did for so many they met on their way.

That's why they should celebrate, Elio thinks, as he starts to walk back upstairs, the champagne dangling from his hand. He slowly mounts the stairs, looking over his shoulder at Oliver, who follows him, holding his gaze.

“Elio.” Elio grins.

“Oliver.” Oliver groans, taking two steps at the time.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and supporting my experiment with Elio and Oliver. I truly loved this version of them and I hope you did as well - and excuse the little twist at the end.  
> I loved to finally write from Elio's perspective on the last few pages.  
> Carrie Mae Weems is a real artist, check her out.  
> In Rome, Elio is watching Colpo Grosso.  
> But Elio is not on the backsleeve of that Pet Shop Boys single (sadly). Neither did Mapplethorpe photograph him...  
> Same sex couples are only allowed to adopt since 2013 in Italy and since 2016 in France... go figure!
> 
> I hope we'll meet again on one of my next fics, though the one I'm currently working on (A&T RPF) is DARK and will be locked to AO3 users, so better get an account if you want to read it.


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